


Two Meters

by Tor_Raptor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hospitals, Lung Transplant, M/M, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Romance, Some Fluff, Surgery, Teenlock, Young Love, cystic fibrosis, different character dynamics, major character illness, mild johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-12-07 20:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: Can you love someone you can never touch?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I threw this story together more quickly than I've ever written before, but that's mostly because it's based very tightly on the novel "Five Feet Apart" by Rachael Lippincott. All credit for plot goes to her, of course. I changed only the names of the main characters and a few minor details to fit this story into the Sherlock universe. Also, the nature of the book has forced me to do something I've never done before: write Johnlock. In all of my other stories, they have a strict bromance/friendship-to-end-all-other-friendships, but here things get a little different. Now, I didn't go crazy or anything. In terms of the degree of intimacy, think Disney movie. Regardless, I found it very useful for my versatility as a writer to do something new, and I hope you enjoy reading.

Take a deep breath. That's what people always say when they're trying to calm someone down, whether from panic, excitement, or rage. For most people, it works; it forces them to focus on something that rarely requires any attention at all, therefore diverting their brainpower from whatever it was they were freaking out about. But it doesn't work for me. Primarily because breathing isn't necessarily so automatic. If I were to make a pie chart of all the things I think about on a daily basis, breathing would take up a pretty sizeable chunk—alongside reminders to take medication to ease breathing, fears of missing out on important things because of breathing (or lack thereof), and worries about inevitably stopping breathing one day.

I have no intention of stopping anytime soon, which is why I'm settling in for yet another extended hospital stay. I'm supposed to be preparing for a ski trip with my mates James and Mike and the rest of our school class, but a persistent sore throat and fever have forced me to make other plans. Which sucks, because I'm the one who planned the whole thing, but at this point in my life I'm kinda used to disappointment. Cystic fibrosis always gets the final say on what I can and can't do.

Yep, cystic fibrosis has been my 'buzzword' since before I could even pronounce it correctly. One would think that a buildup of mucus in the lungs wouldn't be such a big deal, but I can avow that it is, in fact, quite a huge deal. Not just because it clogs everything up, but also because certain somebodies get trapped in the stuff like it's quicksand. Bacteria are the nemesis of every kid with CF. If it weren't for bacteria, I'd be off having fun like a teenager is supposed to.

Instead, I'm reacquainting myself with the hospital and unpacking my things. I have it down to a science now, and I pull everything out and sort it while practically on autopilot, trying not to let myself focus on all the fun I'll miss over the next few weeks. I don't even notice the objects I'm removing until I stumble upon the drawing. My sister Harry made this drawing for me ages ago—a pair of lungs made, not of alveoli and bronchi, but of flowers and stars. It represents the ultimate goal of all CF kids: healthy lungs. Many hope for it and never achieve it, but some are lucky enough to climb the transplant list and be granted more time by some late good Samaritan. Right now, I sit somewhere on that list, patiently waiting my turn until there's nobody left who's sicker than I am.

I go through a few more photographs of me and Harry from the past couple years. Some were taken during various hospital visits, others on holidays or on the occasional trip we managed to take somewhere exciting. I've always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel, but we never got around to it. I pin the lung drawing up over the head of the bed and stare at it a bit longer, as if I can speed up the process by sheer force of will. I just have to keep myself alive until I can get those new lungs. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Before I can mull over that thought for too long, there's a knock at the door. "Come in," I chime robotically, assuming it's a nurse checking in on my progress. Instead, James and Mike enter the room.

"Why are hospitals so difficult to navigate?" James asks. "It took us ages to find this place."

"Maybe that's just because you're too proud to ever ask for directions," I counter. No matter how many times they visit me in this same hospital, they can never find the room within a reasonable amount of time.

"Or maybe they just need better signage," he sighs.

"Maybe they're just trying to keep imbeciles like you away from the patients," I tease. "They're worried you might rub off on them."

"Hey, that was uncalled for. We came all this way to say goodbye," James says.

"And to say we're sorry you can't come with us. It won't be the same without you," Mike laments.

"Of course not. It'll be better, you won't have to wait for me to catch my breath all the time. You can go as fast as you want."

"John, you know we don't mind slowing down. 'Stop and smell the roses' and all that." Of course they never complain about having to wait for me, but I can feel it. Sometimes they want to move at their own pace, and I can respect that. I wouldn't want to be held back by someone slower than me.

"I know. But I also know you're going to have a great time in Switzerland. It's probably better this way. Mountain air is thinner, not ideal for shitty lungs," I explain. Now that I think about it, it might be serendipitous that this illness is keeping me from the ski trip. Had I gone, I probably would've been miserable. At least I know I'll be breathing easier when I finally get to leave here.

"Good you're seeing the positive side of things. But won't you be lonely here?" Mike asks concernedly. He's the type of person that would go crazy if left alone for longer than an hour; he needs company or his life force drains away or something. Sometimes I secretly wish I could lock him in an isolation cell and just see what happens.

"No. The nurses around here are amazing, and my parents will visit occasionally. Who knows, maybe Greg's here too. If anyone spends more time here than I do, it's Greg." Greg Lestrade is a fellow cystic fibrosis patient; I met him many years ago on my first visit here. It's great to have a friend who understands exactly what it's like to have CF. However, there are certain drawbacks to having CF friends. Most importantly, the two meters rule. Two people with cystic fibrosis cannot get closer than two meters or they run the risk of inhaling each other's bacteria and developing the be-all-end-all infection. It makes conversation a little awkward, but Greg and I have found our ways around it. When we're both here at hospital, we spend a lot of time Skyping from our respective rooms, which is almost the same as face-to-face.

James glances at his mobile to check the time, evidently time for their departure, as he and Mike wish me good luck and say their goodbyes. I make them promise to send lots of pictures from Switzerland. Now that I'm alone again, I check the hospital to-do list I made. I have a to-do list for pretty much every day, especially while I'm here. They help keep everything straight in my head. I cross off the first item on the list (unpack) and move on to number two: write up blog post. For the past couple years, I've kept a blog about my journey with CF, informing my followers about the ups and downs of my life.

I open the computer and write up a quick post: "Well, here I am again. This fever has refused to drop, so I'm in for another round of antibiotics and breathing treatments before I can be on with my life. Hopefully, things will go smoothly and I'll be home again in two weeks or so. I'm missing a school trip to Switzerland, but I'm focused on staying positive and staying healthy. What more can a guy do?"

Deciding that's a sufficient summary of the current situation, I hit post and watch as the hit count immediately starts to climb. After a few minutes, I scroll through a couple of comments and drink in the follower support. Many of them are fellow cystic fibrosis patients that use my story as encouragement to get them through their own treatments, but others are friends from school, family, or strangers genuinely interested in my life for some reason. Regardless of the reason, they're all rooting for me, and reading their feedback is usually helpful.

Just before I can hazard another glance at my to-do list, Molly enters the room with a characteristic smile on her face. Molly's been a nurse here for as long as I've been here, and she's become like a second mother to me. She can be strict at times, but she's also a shoulder to cry on, a darn good advice-giver, and a half-decent conversationalist.

"Hello John," she greets cheerily. I will never understand how she manages to stay cheerful when she works in a hospital full of sick kids, some of which are terminal, but her positivity has yet to wane even the least.

"Hi Molly," I reply. In her hands, she carries the first of many doses of antibiotics I will be flooded with during my stay here. Expertly, she starts an IV and hangs the bag on the stand beside the bed.

"You'll be pleased to hear that Greg's here in room 224," she says as she finishes fiddling with the tubing.

"Really? Why?" I question eagerly. That's just down the hall my current residence at 220. Greg's presence will make this stay so much more enjoyable.

"Bronchitis," she explains. She can see me already moving to stand up and go find him, so she instructs, "Finish your IV first, then you can go and see him." I sit back down on the bed, somewhat dejected, and watch as she turns to leave. "And you know the rules: two meters."

"Of course," I say. That rule has been drilled into my head so many times that I couldn't forget it if I tried. I turn my attention back to the to-do list, and add 'visit Greg' to the bottom. The next thing I had listed was to work on my app, although I'm not sure I have the energy to do that right now. The app started off as a concept for a school project, to design something to help people in their everyday lives. Of course, when given this assignment, my mind immediately jumped to illness and medication management. I'm on so many different medications that it's hard to keep track of when I take them, how much, and with what. An automated reminder system would make things so much easier, so that's what I submitted.

Except, I couldn't stop there.

The idea of an automated reminder system seemed so enticing that I had to make it a reality. The coding is almost complete, but I'm in the process of going over every line and making sure there are no errors. Ideally, a person with any sort of chronic illness requiring daily management will be able to plug in their dosage, timing, and any other pertinent information, and the app will remind them when to take meds with a fun little notification. Right now, my heart's set on a dancing pill bottle, although I suspect older clientele will want something a little less whimsical.

Wishing I could go ahead and visit Greg already, I stand up from the bed and drag the pole to the door. The bag is nowhere near finished, but I can probably sneak past Molly. I've done it countless times before—when you spend as much time in a hospital as I have, you learn how to get what you want pretty easily. Grabbing a face mask from the box by the door (face masks are more crucial than underpants for a kid with CF in a hospital) I slowly make my way outside until I'm standing in the hallway.

Just across the hallway, I see an unfamiliar face outside of room 221. Unfamiliar faces are pretty rare around here. I know all the staff on the CF ward, and just about all the patients. This boy must be a new patient here. How do I know he's a patient? It's not that hard to tell. Cystic fibrosis kids usually have a look about them. The same mucus that builds up in our lungs also appears in our pancreas, preventing it from making enough enzymes to properly digest food. Because of this, we're pretty malnourished without a little boost. I take supplements with every meal to help me digest what I do eat, and I have a G-tube which goes directly into my abdomen to give me extra nutrients. This kid clearly hasn't followed the protocol. He's about as skinny as a person can be without having bones sticking out of their joints.

I make sure to maintain my distance of two meters while listening in on his conversation. He's currently talking to a boy and a girl about our age, "I've memorized the nursing schedule, so if you go ahead now nobody should bother you for about an hour. Just make sure you're not too noisy."

"You sure?" the girl asks. She's fairly tall, with dark skin and even darker, curly hair. Her hand is entwined with the other boy's.

"Of course I'm sure. And don't get too crazy, I do have to sleep in there later."

"Yeah, we know," the boy, who I've figured is the girl's boyfriend, says. It doesn't take long for me to realize what's going on here, and I'm immediately disgusted. This kid is offering up his hospital room for these two to shag each other. If it weren't for the fear I'd actually have a coughing fit, I would gag at the mere thought.

The boy and girl disappear into room 221, closing the door carefully behind them. The raven-haired boy looks to me, and I stare at him with as much revulsion as I can manage. I hope he gets the message even if he can't see the half of my face that's hidden beneath the face mask.

"I can't believe you," I growl.

"And why ever not?" he replies with mock innocence. Instead of replying, I storm off and my feet carry me to the NICU. Whenever I'm stuck here in hospital, I usually make at least one trip here to watch the babies. I never get near enough to touch them, fearing that somehow contact with me could give them CF, even though I know that's impossible. Still, watching their little chests move up and down is therapeutic. Technically, I'm not supposed to be up here, but Molly and Martha usually let it slide if they catch me. They understand that being confined to a single ward for so long is impossible, and they'd rather allow me this simple pleasure than watch me slowly go crazy from cabin fever.

My eyes focus on one particular baby, on one of those tiny ventilators for preemies whose lungs are too underdeveloped to function properly. I can relate to them especially, since non-functioning lungs are a part of my daily life. I count the breaths the machine initiates, take in their regularity and evenness, and allow the rhythm to calm me down. Just thinking about that boy makes me shiver, and I'm actually glad I have a reason to avoid him.

~0~

Another day, another doctor. That's the most concise way to summarize my life. This is just another hospital in another country offering another drug for another futile hope of prolonging my miserable life. No matter how many times I tell Mycroft that I don't want to do this anymore, he never listens, only drags me off somewhere new. I've learned to just live with his overprotective big brother complex while minimizing the amount of work I actually have to do.

When I first arrived, I thought this would be just like all the other hospital experiences (none too interesting), but all that changed when I caught sight of him. I had just lent out my room to Philip and Sally so they could 'fraternize' or whatever, and he appeared out of nowhere, fuming. Why did he care what I chose to do with my room? It was a need to answer that question, and nothing more, that prompted me to chase after him.

His trail leads me to the NICU, where I find him staring at newborn babies as if they contain the secrets of the universe. I can't make out much of his features due to the face mask obscuring his mouth and nose—a rule-follower, obviously—but he's pretty short with sandy, blonde hair and blue eyes. When he catches sight of me, those blue eyes once again fill with rage.

"What makes you think you have the right to even do something like that?" he asks, voice dripping with venom. I can't help but be slightly taken aback at the severity of his anger. Geez, what is this guy's deal?

"Well, it is my room," I say.

"A hospital room, not a university dormitory."

"Your point?"

"It doesn't seem the least bit wrong to you, offering up your hospital room to your friends for that purpose?" I notice he's avoiding explicitly stating what it is they're doing, although he clearly knows. He must be a prude.

"Not really," I admit. "They wanted somewhere private, I just so happen to have exactly what they need. I call that being a good friend."

"I call it abuse of privilege."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You weren't given a private room so you can share it with your buddies. You're sick."

"And so are you, yet here we are." I take a step closer to him, my eyes narrowing in concentration. Usually, I can win an argument without batting an eye (unless it's with Mycroft) but this boy is giving me a run for my money. But I gladly accept the challenge.

"Yes, here we are, in a hospital, not a brothel." I must admit I didn't expect such fire from such a small frame, but I'm both intrigued and impressed. I'm just about to reply when that brown-haired nurse with the overly-cheery personality storms into the NICU.

"Sherlock Holmes, you know the rules! Two meters! And where is your face mask?" Suddenly I realize how close I am to the other boy and immediately step back. Not necessarily for my sake, but for his. I couldn't care less if I catch whatever he's growing in those lungs of his, but I will not be responsible for shortening his lifespan by exposing him to the bacteria inside me. The boy looks at me smugly, knowing he's safe from Molly's rage because he's followed all the rules. I, on the other hand, am breaking several just by being here. I'm supposed to be quarantined to the CF floor, because apparently I'm 'disruptive.'

"Sorry… I forgot it," I explain, although that's not the case. I actually stared at the box before leaving the room to meet Philip and Sally and actually flipped it off. Whenever I wear one, the fabric sticks to my face and I feel like I'm suffocating. I'd rather breathe in whatever lurks in the hospital air than feel like I can't breathe at all. Evidently, this other boy does not share that sentiment.

"John, why didn't you remind him?" Molly inquires. I silently thank her for giving me some pertinent information: the 'other boy' at least has a name now. John glances at me before turning his attention back to Molly.

"I'm sorry, we were a little busy arguing about something else." He doesn't explain what we're arguing about, and I silently thank him. If Molly discovers Philip and Sally, I'll be quarantined to a four by six cell for the rest of my stay here and only allowed one phone call a day. Molly ushers me and John out of the room and tells us we'd better be back in our rooms in the next five minutes or there'd be hell to pay. We both trudge back to the CF ward, maintaining that crucial two meters, and he disappears into his room without another word. I knock first, not wanting to walk in on something that'll scar me for life, and hear Philip's voice beckoning me in.

They've clearly finished with whatever it was they were doing, and have even taken the courtesy to make the bed for me. They hurry out, leaving me alone to contemplate my current situation. In just a few days, I'll turn eighteen, and then Mycroft won't be able to drag me around the world for treatments anymore. I'll be free to damn it all and live out the rest of my life the way I want to—by actually living. That birthday can't come soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Four o'clock strikes, and Molly enters promptly to help me set up my AffloVest. Unfortunately, it's a very familiar friend, and a necessary evil. Imagine being hugged tighter than is humanly possible, and then the person starts violently shaking up and down; that's what wearing the vest is like. The goal is to break up the mucus in the lungs and allow it to be expelled, and it does accomplish this goal, although the experience is anything but pleasant. An AffloVest treatment with fewer than five violent coughing fits is an inefficient one.

As she sets me up, I can't help but ask her about the boy from the NICU, Sherlock. I already know he's a fellow CFer, but there must be more to the story than that. "What's his deal?" I inquire.

"Sherlock? He's here for a drug trial for B. cepacia," Molly explains. Despite my initial hatred of the boy, my heart sinks at hearing this news. Burkholderia cepacia is a death sentence for a kid with cystic fibrosis. Contracting it ensures that one is ripped off the lung transplant list, and years are ripped off one's lifespan. Once B cepacia is in the system, everything pretty much becomes extended palliative care.

"That sucks," I remark. "You said he's here for a drug trial? The drug any good?"

"We don't know. But we hope so."

Of course. That's the go-to response for doctors and nurses when they're grasping at straws. 'We hope so' pretty much means that science has been almost entirely abandoned in favor of blind faith. Don't get me wrong, I've relied on blind faith plenty of times, but blind faith doesn't cure diseases. Blind faith won't save Sherlock Holmes. Why do I even care? I've hated the guy since the moment I saw him, and I really couldn't care less if he dies. But, Sherlock's death would be another victory for cystic fibrosis. And I'm always rooting against that.

Molly leaves me alone while the AffloVest hums away. I try to read a book, pausing occasionally to hack up a pile of thick mucus, when my laptop starts to buzz: a Skype call from my father. I answer it and am greeted with his smiling face. I checked myself into hospital this time, and I haven't seen him in a week or so. My parents are divorced, and I live with my mother, so time with Dad is a rare treat.

"How are you doing?" he asks.

"Already better," I tell him, pausing to cough again. Though the amount of mucus is rather disgusting, the sight of it makes me glad; every ounce out is another ounce I don't have to try and breathe around. "Fever's gone down a bit, and the sore throat is already on the mend."

"That's great. Your mother and I are trying to coordinate a visit in the next couple of days." Great. I'd prefer it if they came separately, because they always argue when they're together. But I guess they want to make sure they present a 'united front' to the medical staff in charge of keeping me alive.

"Okay. If you can't figure something out, that's alright too," I assure him. "Greg's here, so it's not like I'm starved for company."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."

"Okay, I'll leave you be. See you soon."

"See you soon," I say before hanging up. I glance at the clock and hope it's nearing the end of the vest treatment time. I'm supposed to wear it half an hour each day, and for the most part I'm pretty good about it. I only take it off early occasionally, when the coughing is particularly nasty and I feel like one more might actually force my trachea inside out. This time, I keep it on the whole time, and am rewarded with significantly easier breathing. However, as I'm taking it off, I notice a painful sensation around my G-tube. A quick glance at the red and inflamed skin proves an infection is beginning. Almost robotically, I grab the antibiotic cream off the med cart in the corner of the room and apply it. Hopefully, this will take care of it before it worsens. If not… I don't bother to think about it.

I replace the cream on the med cart and recheck that everything else is in order. Whenever I come here, I'm positively anal about the organization of this cart. It's one of the few aspects of my life that cystic fibrosis doesn't wrest control of. After I finished checking it over, I return to the book and manage to read up until dinner time. Martha brings in my tray and tells me Greg is expecting to talk to me while we eat.

"Sounds good," I say as she sets the tray before me. As I mentioned, nutrition is rather difficult for CF kids, so my almost every meal is couple with a milkshake or something equally as calorie-dense. My finished app alerts me to take dinnertime meds with a dancing pill bottle, and I set them out on the tray alongside the food. Just as Martha departs, my laptop buzzes with an incoming call from Greg. I answer and see him on the screen boasting a tray almost identical to mine.

"Hey John," he greets.

"Hey Greg. How are you?" I ask.

"Well, I'm here, so not so great in the grand scheme of things. But as far as kids in hospital go, I think I'm doing alright."

"Well said."

"Thank you. How about you? Aren't you missing your big trip for this?"

"Yeah, I am supposed to be in Switzerland with my mates, but my lungs had other plans."

"As they often do."

"Yes, my lungs are rather busy."

"I think they should replace the expression 'busy as a bee' with 'busy as a CFer's lungs.'"

I chuckle, "Not sure that would fly with the rest of the world. I'll be you can get the nurses to start using it, though."

"Is that a challenge?" Greg taunts.

"Maybe it is. You might have just made yourself a trend-setter."

"Maybe. Anyways, how's your food tonight?"

"Better than usual."

"They'd better make it good if they expect us to eat it. Surviving solely off that G-tube mush is simply not an option."

"For some people it is. Imagine if you had no teeth."

"I'd throw everything in a blender and suck it down through a straw. My lungs might be shit, but no way would I ever let my taste buds atrophy."

"Fair enough."

We take a couple minutes just to eat, periodically glancing up just to make sure we're both still on the screen. I've accidentally hung up on him I-don't-know-how-many times, and it always pisses him off. Suddenly, I hear two alarms at once: one coming through the laptop's speaker, and another blaring from down the hallway.

"Greg!" I shout, hurling myself out of bed. I barely have time to drag on a face mask before I'm out the door and down the hallway. Doctors and nurses dash in his direction, rushing to fix whatever it is that's broken this time. He'd been talking and laughing just minutes ago, how could his lungs just quit now? It didn't seem possible.

I've barely made it two steps down the hallway when the alarm is silenced. I hear the cry of, "false alarm," and breathe a sigh of relief. This wouldn't be the first time Greg has accidentally pulled some monitoring wire off and initiated an alarm. Regardless, I thanked the staff for their quick response as they returned to their posts. I return to my room and the laptop which still sits on my bed.

"Greg, mate, you have got to stop doing that," I urge. "Forget about my lungs, my heart's going to give out with another scare like that."

"I'm sorry," he defends. "I swear it was an accident."

"I know, but you could be more careful."

"Not everyone can be Mr. Perfect," he teases. "Maybe the engineers could design this stuff better so it's not so easy to fall off or tangle."

"Take it up with the engineers, then. I'm sure they'll be glad to hear you complain."

"Hey, the people who design this stuff usually don't have to use it."

"Which is why they need input from the people who do. Maybe you should ask Molly to grab some of the tape they use in the NICU so the babies don't pull off their leads."

"Are you calling me a baby?"

"No," I say sarcastically. Greg is a lot of things, but mature for his age is not one of them.

~0~

This evening, I discover John Hamish Watson. The guy's been keeping a blog about his life with cystic fibrosis since he could spell. I spend hours scouring the blog, reading every single entry until my eyes are as shot as my lungs. I read all night long, foregoing sleep in favor of learning more about my hallmate. Surprisingly, the blog has thousands upon thousands of followers. Apparently this guy John is popular. I never would have guessed, since my first impression was that he's a stuck-up goody two-shoes with the nursing staff wrapped around his little finger.

The more I read, the more I discover I was wrong about him. He's been through a lot, just as much as I have, if not more, in the course of his treatment. I read about surgeries, hospital visits, infections, and see myself in everything John has written about. Although there's one crucial difference: John actually wants to get better. Everything he does is to preserve his health long enough for him to get new lungs. I, on the other hand, stopped trying long before I even got the B. cepacia. For me, I just don't see the point. Even if I was still eligible for a lung transplant, they'd last five years before my body started to muck them up just like it had with this pair, and then I'd be back to square one. I'd much rather life my life to the fullest now and have it cut short than drag out this half life.

But Mycroft isn't giving me much of a choice. Not that he ever gave me much of a choice in anything. After our mother and father died in a car accident, he assumed control of me and all my medical decisions at age nineteen. Most would say that's too young to be put in charge of a minor with a serious illness, but Mycroft was practically born an adult. I often call him a Benjamin Button, which irritates him to no end, but that only encourages me to do it more often. Irritating him is one thing he can't force me to stop.

That morning, Mycroft and Dr. Mortimer both appear in my room to discuss the drug trial. It's called Cevoflomalin, as if it matters. It's just another medication that isn't going to work. For the most part, they talk to each other, and I pretend to listen.

"This drug has only been on trial in humans for eighteen months," Dr. Mortimer explains, "So we can't be sure how Sherlock or the B. cepacia will react to it, but we're hoping it'll work along with his regular regimen."

"Sherlock, are you even listening?" Mycroft asks. Of course, he can see right through me when I'm tuned out. Fooling him is a much different battle than fooling the doctors or the nurses.

"Unfortunately, I am. And what I'm hearing is that this drug is literally a shot in the dark. You might as well mix up a draught of paint thinner and hydrochloric acid, string it up in an IV, and hope for the best. Sounds about as effective as whatever you've currently got."

Mycroft fixes me with his best disappointment stare, and I stick my tongue out at him. He shakes his head sadly, which I ignore. Pretty much every emotion he ever displays except for apathy is an act. The day I see Mycroft show genuine emotion is the day I sprint a hundred meters without gasping for breath.

He apologizes to Dr. Mortimer on my behalf, and she shows herself out. I stare Mycroft down until he, too, leaves me alone. For a while, I stare at the ceiling of the hospital room, wishing I was anywhere else. Then I realize I could make that wish a reality. Foregoing a face mask, I slip out of my room and down the hallway. I haven't spent all that much time in this particular hospital, but I've been in enough to be able to find my way around without difficulty. All hospitals use the same algorithms in their arrangement. After I deciphered that pattern, learning the layout became second nature.

I easily find my way to the staircase that will bring me to the roof. It's the sterile, stagnant hospital air that's driving me crazy. I just need to breathe some real air, and I might be able to handle the next few days without lashing out too severely at Mycroft and Dr. Mortimer. However, I first must get through the door without triggering the alarm. People aren't supposed to be on the roof, so their doors come equipped with an alarm that will go off if the door is opened. Unless the opener knows the trick. As I open the door, I wedge paper money onto the trigger mechanism, preventing it from recognizing that the door has been opened. To ensure the door doesn't lock behind me, I leave my wallet tucked into the door jamb. Mycroft would shudder at using something so expensive so haphazardly, but I really don't care. He bought me the wallet for my sixteenth birthday, expecting I'd mature with the possession of such a prestigious item, but I'm afraid I disappointed him on that front.

From this area of the roof, I can see the exterior wall of part of the hospital. By running over the map of the hospital in my head, I figure I'm actually looking at the very ward I came from. This conclusion is reinforced when I catch sight of John looking out his window up at the roof. I know he sees me, because his eyes light up with disbelief, followed quickly by anger. I don't understand why he's always angry with me, it's not like I'm harming him in any way. I give him an exaggerated wave, and he rolls his eyes.

I turn away from him and focus on what I came here to do. Taking a deep breath, I inhale all the scents of the outdoors, letting the new air replace the stench of hospital. I've been on the roof of almost every hospital I've ever been in, which is a lot. The insides are all the same, with stark white walls, fluorescent lighting, uncomfortable sheets, and overbearing nurses. But the outsides, the outsides are where I can actually drink in the city. Some people say that passing through the airport of a city doesn't count as visiting; I say that being in a hospital in a city doesn't count as visiting. Mycroft will never let me do actual tourist things, so this is the closet I'll ever get to sightseeing.

I take a step closer to the edge for a better view of the skyline. I wish I could stay up here until I turn eighteen, when I can finally tell Mycroft to go screw himself and leave me alone, but I know my absence will be noticed before that can happen. Even the idiotic personnel here could eventually find my trail and discover my whereabouts.

An all-too-familiar sensation starts building in my chest. Suddenly, my breath hitches, and I'm gasping for air, unable to draw in oxygen through my worthless lungs. I feebly start coughing, attempting to dislodge something to allow more air inside, but to no avail. My vision starts to blacken around the periphery, and only then do I realize just how close to the edge of the roof I am.


	3. Chapter 3

What the hell does this kid think he's doing? The second I see him perched on top of the roof like a pigeon, I wonder what drove him to go up there, and how he managed it. I know for a fact that the door to the roof is rigged with an alarm to prevent this very situation. And then he has the audacity to wave at me as if this is the most normal thing in the world. I have half a mind to turn around and ignore him, but something in my gut tells me that's not a good idea. And then I see him start coughing, standing precariously close to the edge. Not on my watch.

I run as fast as I can to the stairs and start climbing, dragging myself up with the handrail. By the time I get to the top, I'm as breathless as I've ever been. I stumble out onto the rooftop, praying I'm not too late. Evidently, I'm not.

I stand there gasping like a fish while Sherlock stares back at me, perfectly fine. Somehow, in the interlude between my leaving the window and getting up here, he caught his breath and moved away from the edge—the bastard. I risked my neck to potentially save his life, and it turns out he never needed help in the first place. Now that my panting has slowed down, I have energy to think about what just happened. I charged up here planning to save a boy I already decided I hate. Why?

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks me. I wish I could answer him truthfully, but I had just asked myself the very same question.

"I thought…" I begin, my lungs still catching up with the recent exertion, "I was going to… save your stupid arse from plummeting… off the roof."

"How kind of you," he replies snarkily.

"What is your deal?" I finally have the stamina to put a bit of venom in my tone.

"I'm not a huge fan of hospitals," he admits.

"So you thought you'd hurl yourself off the roof and be done with it? Are you suicidal?"

"No. If that was the case, I would have jumped. Scratch that, I would've found a much cleaner method of offing myself. Jumping off a roof, that's just not classy." The nonchalant way he's talking makes me want to tear my hair out, but I restrain myself.

"How'd you even get up here without setting off the alarm?"

"Did you see the notes on your way in? If you stuff them in the right spot, they hold the trigger mechanism down. You spend enough time in hospitals and you learn how to escape them."

"Why would you want to escape? Aren't you here to get better?"

"Better? John, there is no 'better' for someone like me. There's stasis, then decline, and then death. Any treatment they can offer me is just to prolong my misery."

"That's no reason not to do it," I defend. I can't know for sure what his life is like, but I know from experience that CF isn't all misery. The treatments keep us alive so we can do other things—not just ail and die.

"It's a perfectly good reason not to do it. I could be out in the world living my life, but instead I'm here just to receive a drug that is ninety nine percent hope." I did a little research about Cevoflomalin and B. cepacia, and I know that Sherlock's drug trial is much more than one percent medicine. And he talks about hope as if it's a bad thing. Hope is quite the opposite; it's often the only thing that keeps people going when they've nothing else to cling to.

"Besides, these treatments hardly work," Sherlock adds.

"Have you ever actually tried them?" I question. From the looks of him, he certainly hasn't been taking whatever medications he's prescribed. He must be mighty clever to have gotten away with that under Molly's watch.

"Sure I have. And they're a waste of time. What do you care if I take care of myself or not? It doesn't affect you. Heck, it wouldn't even matter to you if I did this—" he moves away from me and stands on the ledge, dangling a foot in the open air.

"Stop!" I shout. I can't get close enough to force him back onto the roof, so I resort to shouting. "Get away from there!"

"Oh," he says, staring at me with renewed interest. "Evidently you do care."

"Just because I don't want you to jump off a roof, that doesn't mean I care about you," I say, thought I know that must not be true. It really shouldn't matter to me if he lives or dies, but some part of me does care.

"Yes it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

"I'm not going to stand here and listen to you be a child. I'm going back inside before I get in trouble for being on the roof," I say, turning around and heading back towards the door.

"Have fun with that," Sherlock chimes. I roll my eyes and trudge back down the stairs and into my room. An hour or so later, I get a Skype call from James. I lay back on the bed and answer the call.

"Hey!" he says enthusiastically.

"Hi," I return, though I can't muster the same amount of happiness. "How's Switzerland?"

"It's great. Mike wiped out massively this morning, and Percy caught it on video."

"You have to show me that. Put it on the internet, maybe he'll go viral."

"Way ahead of you. How are things there?"

"Pretty typical. Greg's here, which helps."

"Anyone else? Have you made any… new friends?" James asks. He's hinting at something, though I've no clue why. There's no way he could know about Sherlock.

"No," I say quickly. Too quickly.

"That means there's definitely someone. Who's the new guy? Another CFer?"

"Yeah," I admit. I'm a pretty terrible liar, so there's no point in pretending Sherlock doesn't exist. Plus, it might help to share my frustrations with someone. "His name's Sherlock."

"Is he cute?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Because you… you know, like that sort of thing sometimes." I've been openly bisexual for a few years now, not that it matters all that much. People don't genuinely find people like me attractive, and I have an unfortunately short shelf life.

"No. And he has CF, so I could never get close enough to do anything even if I wanted to. But I don't. He's an annoying prick."

"From the way you're talking, it sounds like you think the opposite," James says.

"That's not true. This kid doesn't even care if he lives or dies; he nearly jumped off the roof of the hospital today."

"Wow. Sounds like a trip."

"You could call it that. I call it a headache."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound convinced. I sigh exasperatedly and tell him I have to go. "Bye John."

"Bye James," I say, closing the laptop. I rest my head against the pillow and stare up at the ceiling. Do I care? Looking exclusively at my actions, it sure seems that I do. I ran up to the roof at the risk of my own health when I thought he was in danger. I practically panicked when he threatened to jump. But why? I haven't even known him very long, but the thought of him dying is horrible. And it's not just because I hate the idea of another life lost to cystic fibrosis. Despite that less-than-ideal first impression… I really don't want Sherlock Holmes to die.

~0~

The last thing I expected was for John Watson to come into my room. He knows about the B. cepacia, and he's as big a stickler for rules as I've ever seen. So when there's a knock at my door, his is the last face I ever expected to see. Well, see half of. He's wearing at least two face masks. Frankly, I can't blame him. When I open the door, I immediately step back to two meters, and he nods his approval.

Before I can even ask the question on my mind, he asks his own: "Do you even have a treatment regimen?"

"Of course," I answer. Every CF kid has a treatment regimen.

"Where is it?" he asks. "I want to see it."

Yikes. I shouldn't care, but for some reason I don't want to disappoint him. "Well… you see… I'm not sure where I left it."

"You lost it?" I nod sheepishly. "Well, it must be in here somewhere," John says. He commences searching through stacks of things around the room without even asking.

"Hey, you can't just go through my stuff," I tell him, but he ignores me.

"And you can't just ignore your doctor's instructions," he replies. Realizing that stopping him is futile, I decide to help him search. Surprisingly, I actually find the piece of paper tucked inside a folder with an old cold case I forced Mycroft to procure for me.

"Here it is," I announce, waving it defiantly in front of his face. He snatches it and steps back, his eyes scanning over every word.

"Why have you defiled it with scribbles?" I guess I must've used it for taking notes on the case. "It's not scrap paper. This is the key to your health, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but I frankly don't care."

"You don't care?"

"Not really, no."

"You're unbelievable." Before I can respond, John storms out. I stand in the center of the room, alone, and on a whim decide to chase after him. He's long gone, but I know exactly where he'll be going. I follow him to the NICU and see him staring at the same baby from last time. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it: "You have to do the regimen."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because… you just have to."

"That's not a reason. You're just repeating what you said before," I inform him.

"I know, it's just that I don't really know how to put this into words. I like… I like to be in control, and you're the polar opposite of that. You're wild and all over the place, and it's making it hard for me to stay focused."

"Focused on what?"

"On my own treatment, and on getting out of here. You think I like being here? I probably hate it just as much as you do—I was supposed to be on a ski trip right now. I'd give anything to be anywhere but here. Unfortunately, I have to be here, and I might as well make something good come out of it."

"Something good? What do you mean?" I ask him. I can tell he does have a point, but he's avoiding addressing it.

"Sherlock, look at yourself. You're wasting away to nothing. If you keep ignoring treatment, you won't have the ability to go out and 'live your life' or whatever. You'll keel over before you can set foot out the front door."

As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. Breathing gets harder each and every day, and at this rate I might not even make it to my eighteenth birthday. I know I really have no choice here, but I'm at least going to make a bargain out of it.

"Fine. On one condition," I warn.

"State your terms," he invites.

"Let me deduce you."

"Pardon?"

"Let me. Deduce you."

"What does that even mean?" he asks incredulously.

"I'll look at you, and I'll tell you what I see."

"Sounds perverted."

"Not like that," I assure him. "It's like solving a puzzle. I'll observe the details of your clothing, your posture, your mannerisms, and tell you what I deduce from that."

"Whatever. Have at it, but not right now. I have somewhere to be."

"Where?"

"My room. Unlike you, I'm currently following a treatment regimen. I'll see you tomorrow." He turns around and leaves me alone in the NICU. I look back at the baby for a few moments before returning to my room. On the way there, I run into another boy about our age.

"Hi," he says, keeping two meters distance. Even though I understand its purpose, that space never ceases to annoy me. "I'm Greg."

"Nice to meet you," I reply. "Do you know John?"

"Yeah. He and I have been coming here for years."

"Neat," I say, having no better response. "I just met him a while ago. He's forcing me to go through treatment."

"Yeah, that sounds like John. He's basically a doctor, wanting to make everyone around him better. If you don't mind my saying, you look like you could use it," he remarks. I know I'm not exactly the picture of health, but it hadn't occurred to me just how awful I look to other people.

"I guess so."

"See you around," Greg says, heading towards his own room. I say goodbye and turn into 221. I look at the equipment and medicines scattered about the place and shiver at the thought of actually having to use them. When I was younger I did the treatments because Mycroft was frightening enough to force me into them, and I remember the sensation none too fondly. As I got older, his intimidation tactics started to falter. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back into the swing of things. Though I've never had much faith in hope.


	4. Chapter 4

Before spending an extended amount of time in Sherlock's B. cepacia-infested room, I make sure I'm adequately covered. I look like I'm about to handle people infested with Ebola or bubonic plague, but the situation is pretty analogical. I set up Sherlock's cart almost identical to mine, since it's a system I know well. He watches from the opposite corner of the room, occasionally commenting on a particular placement or organization.

"How'd you get so good at this sort of thing?" Sherlock inquires.

"Just a lot of practice," I reply. I've been organizing my own medicine cart since I was old enough to read the labels. It helps me feel in control. Cystic fibrosis doesn't allow me much control over anything; this is something that's still mine and mine alone. And now I'm sharing it with Sherlock, to allow him to regain some control as well.

When I finish sorting, I show Sherlock where everything is placed. It's not all that complicated, but I want to make sure he's not confused about anything. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't know the names of his own medications. Afterwards, I show myself out and return to my own room to dispose of all my protective layers. I take off the three face masks I put on, followed by the double layer of scrubs. It was probably overkill, but when dealing with B. cepacia a CF kid can't be too careful. Contracting that would mean the end of all hope for my future.

Glancing at my bare chest, my eyes scan over the multitude of scars littering my torso. It looks like a former battleground, covered in filled-in trenches. I cannot even remember what it was like to have unmarred skin—just one of the perks of being chronically ill. My gaze is drawn to the skin around my G-tube, which has not improved whatsoever. It's actually redder and more inflamed than it was a while ago, despite my efforts to heal it. I make a mental note to tell Dr. Mortimer about it the next time she checks in on me.

I throw on a T-shirt and take my own scheduled medication. I debate what to do for a few moments, check my to-do list for today, and then decide to just continue the book I stared the other day. I let myself get lost in the story and try to forget about where I am and why I'm here.

~0~

"You want to do them together?" I question, wondering why John would request such a thing.

"Yes. I don't trust you," he states. "I need to see that you're actually doing it, and the best way to do that is to do it together."

"Okay."

"Let me show you the app I designed for maintenance of chronic illnesses."

He breaks out his phone and starts showing me this app that he actually designed himself. It provides reminders for taking medication or doing treatments, though I'm not overly fond of the dancing pill bottle. It seems so juvenile. But John seems understandably excited about it, so I go along with him and let him show me how to download it onto my own phone. Almost immediately, a notification pops up for me to take a certain medication, complete with drug name, brand name, and dosage information.

"I must say I'm impressed with your coding skills," I tell John.

"My goal is to make it programmable for any illness. I'm most of the way there, but there are still a few kinks to work out."

"Regardless, nice job." It's not often I congratulate someone else on their work, but it's certainly warranted. I see the color rising in John's cheeks, even through the somewhat frazzled picture provided by Skype. I go over to the med cart, easily find the medication indicated by the app's reminder, and swallow the pills dry, a skill I acquired far too early in life. I'm not looking forward to being tied to this med cart several times a day to dose up, but I made a promise to John and I'm not one to turn back on a promise.

Two days later, and I can already feel a difference. I haven't been able to breathe this easily in ages, and it's absolutely wonderful. Now that I have a taste of what it's like with lungs that aren't total crap, I'm somewhat encouraged to continue. At four o'clock, I get a Skype call from John almost simultaneously with the notification from the app for AffloVest treatment. I accept the call from John before plopping down on the bed and starting to hook the vest up. I haven't done it by myself in a while, but the motions are still second nature.

Molly opens the door, prepared for the inevitable battle with me to put the vest on, and she's clearly surprised that I've done it without being asked. She eyes me up and down as if searching for some sort of trick, before handing me a basin and leaving me be.

"Was that Molly?" John's face on the laptop screen asks.

"Yep. Usually, we have a row about this thing. I refuse to put it on, she threatens to call my brother, I agree to put it on, she leaves to see another patient, I take it off, and nobody's the wiser," I explain.

"That's terrible," he states plainly.

"So is this stupid vest," I argue. The vibration of the AffloVest is jarring and uncomfortable, like a massage chair turned on too high a setting.

"It starts out bad, but I promise you'll feel infinitely better afterwards. Better out than in."

"Are you talking about mucus or burps?" I ask. I'm not above childish humor, I just choose to use it sparingly.

"Both," John chuckles before pausing to hack up a pile of mucus into his basin. Not long after, my lungs protest the harsh vibration and force me into a coughing fit. Now I remember why I always took this thing off before it could really get going. However, four fits later and I can already feel a difference in my lungs.

"Like unclogging a toilet," John says merrily.

"Not quite as graceful as that," I reply. My eyes drift to the sizeable pile of mucus that has accumulated in the basin. All of that used to be inside of my lungs. John's right; better out than in. After half an hour, we can finally take them off. I sigh with relief, finding the breath travels just a little easier through my respiratory system. The Skype call doesn't end there, and John spends a few more minutes lamenting his missing the ski trip.

"I planned it, and I can't even enjoy it," he says.

"That sucks." I try to be empathetic, but that sort of thing just doesn't come easy to me. I've learned that if I don't know what to say, nodding and smiling sadly usually works pretty well.

"Of all the times to get sick, it had to be now."

"Well, cystic fibrosis doesn't follow the Gregorian calendar," I say. Surprisingly, this makes John laugh. I smile watching him crack up. The sound evokes a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach—not unpleasant, but welcome. Eventually, he hangs up to take a call from his mother, and I find myself missing his company.

When Molly brings my dinner, I actually force myself to eat the entire thing and take my supplements. I weighed myself earlier this afternoon and was actually horrified at the number. Without taking the meds, everything I eat would go straight through my system without absorbing hardly anything, which is what's been happening for the past several months. I lift up my shirt and count every single rib without difficulty. I'm surprised Mycroft even let things get this far before insisting upon psychological intervention.

Just before bed, John calls back to watch me take all my nighttime meds and make sure I hook myself up to the tube feed before falling asleep. When I lift my shirt to attach it to the button sticking out of my abdomen, I surreptitiously glance up at John and see him cringe at the sight of my emaciated frame. Suddenly, I am determined to put on a few pounds—not necessarily for my sake, but for his. Geez, it feels strange to actually want to do things for other people.

"What do you think this stuff tastes like?" I ask absent-mindedly as I watch the first drops of formula travel down the tube.

"Whatever it is, I don't want to know," John insists.

"You're not even a little bit curious?"

He pauses to think for a minute, before shrugging. "I guess maybe a little. But not enough to attempt to taste it. Maybe Molly or Martha could tell us."

"I'll ask in the morning. They'll be pleased I'm actually engaging with them in something other than an argument for once."

"True. Sherlock, try not to give them a hard time. They really do just have our best interest at heart."

"I know, I know. I just have a knack for being difficult with authority figures," I confess. Truth is, I've been trying to be kind to them since John and I started doing our treatments together, and it seems to be working. I haven't purposefully instigated a conflict in days, and I know they've noticed the difference.

"That explains a lot."

I open my mouth to retort, but realize John's exactly right. I'm notoriously poorly behaved, and have been since early childhood. It's not that I'm a bad person, I just have better things to do than entertain the benign notions of ordinary people.

"Good night John," I tell him, fluffing up the pillow behind my head.

"Good night Sherlock." He hangs up, and I close my laptop and put it on the side table. I lie down on my right side and close my eyes, thoughts dancing from the taste of tube feed, to the sights of London, to the sound of John's voice.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well, it's definitely infected," Dr. Mortimer says as she examines the site around my G-tube. As much as I tried to handle it on my own, it refused to heal, so I resort to asking her opinion. "I'll get you a stronger antibiotic cream, and we'll see if we can nip this in the bud before it gets any worse," she explains.

"And if it doesn't?" I ask. I know the answer already, but I want to hear it from her mouth.

"We'll cross that bridge if we come to it," she says. That's doctor speak for 'I don't want to frighten you with the possible consequences.' Especially for someone in my condition, a worsening infection like this is dangerous. If this antibiotic doesn't work, I'm screwed.

"Okay," I relent. I know I won't get a straight answer out of her even if I beg. Besides, her silence is answer enough. She reads over my regimen again, nods her head, and leaves. I get a text from my mother asking if I'd be willing to have lunch with her today, to which I reply affirmatively. I haven't seen her since I've been in here, and despite myself I actually miss her. She doesn't ever Skype me like Dad does sometimes, preferring exclusively face-to-face contact.

When lunchtime rolls around, I head to the cafeteria and find her waving me down. She's already procured my favorite meal, much to my delight, and I sit down across from her and dig in. One of the few perks of having CF is that it's practically impossible for me to eat too much since I can barely digest it anyway. James once told me he was jealous of my ability to eat whatever and never gain weight, and I asked him if he'd like to trade places. Needless to say, he retracted the statement.

"How have you been?" my mom asks. I swallow and take a breath before telling her about my stay so far.

"It's been pretty nice, actually. Greg's here, and there's a new kid too."

"Who?"

"This boy named Sherlock." She makes a funny face.

"I know, strange name. I want to ask him about it, but the subject just hasn't come up."

"Children should have names that they will be able to find on souvenir keychains," she insists. I laugh, thinking about the simplicity of my own name. Actually, I rarely find my name on souvenir keychains because they're always out of stock.

"Fair enough. But at least he doesn't have to worry about getting confused with another kid in school with the same name."

"Also true. How'd you meet him?"

I decide to omit the parts about him selling out his hospital room to his friends and nearly nose-diving off the roof, skipping instead to the parts that won't force her to put a security detail on me. "He's another CFer on the floor. He hasn't been doing his treatments like he's supposed to; I convinced him otherwise."

"Good for you," she encourages. "I'm lucky you've always been an easy patient."

"Yeah, you are. You wouldn't want to deal with me if I decide to be difficult."

"I don't think you have the capacity to be difficult."

"Oh yeah?" I know she's joking with me, and when I try to picture myself disobeying rules, the image doesn't compute. I've always been the type of kid to be honest with a teacher even when they make grading errors in my favor. I know, nobody likes a goody-goody, but it's just the way I am.

"You'll disobey rules when pigs fly."

"Mum, don't be so cliché. Everyone says 'when pigs fly.'"

"Fine. You'll disobey rules when… when…" I can think of a few things she could say, but most are insensitive or rude. "When your father does the dishes without being asked." We both laugh.

"Much better," I chuckle. "And I guess you're right. I'm not much for rule-breaking."

"And my life is all the easier for it."

"You're welcome." Funnily enough, I would begin breaking rules—important rules—mere days after this conversation. But, I do have a few more days of being a perfect angel left in me before a rebel spirit begins to fester. After we finish lunch, I say goodbye to Mum, complete with hugs and reluctant kisses, and check my to-do list for the day. The next item on the list is working out.

The hospital's gym used to be an absolute wreck, but they recently renovated it. Where once was a poorly lit room filled with broken elliptical machines and rusty weights, now sits a state-of-the-art facility. I head to my room to grab the portable oxygen—I always need that after any sort of strenuous exercise—and text Sherlock to let him know where I'll be. When I arrive at the gym, I find him already there waiting for me.

"Fancy meeting you here," he greets, grinning stupidly at me.

"I didn't know they allowed in the bourgeoisie," I counter.

"Ouch." He turns around and takes his place on one of the treadmills. I choose one two meters away and start at a brisk walk. He watches me for a second, then ups his pace to slightly faster. So it's going to be like that. Dr. Mortimer told me that I didn't have to (and probably shouldn't) go above a jog, but I've never been one to chicken out of a friendly competition. I glance at his setting and go two notches above. By now, my lungs are already protesting violently, but I continue, knowing that he'll probably give out first since he's only just started proper treatment.

"Okay, I surrender," he relents, returning to a walk. I can see his lips have begun to turn blue, and I force him to stop for a minute and breathe on his own portable oxygen. At least he had enough sense to bring it with him. Sharing is not exactly an option. I keep up a light jog for a few more minutes, cool down with a walk, and then stop. I spend a few minutes breathing with the supplement until my chest stops aching. Exercise is just as important for CFers, if not more, because our lungs are in desperate need of being whipped into shape. I pull out my list and check off work out.

"What's that?" Sherlock inquires, peeking at the piece of paper in my hands.

"A to-do list," I answer.

"You have a to-do list?"

"Yes. I make one every day to make sure I don't forget to do anything important."

"Medicine reminder apps, to-do lists, do you do anything on a whim?"

"Not much. I like to plan ahead."

"I see that. Have you got your whole life story already written out?"

"Kinda," I reply meekly.

"How?"

"I have a life to-do list."

"A life to-do list? What kinds of things does one even put on a life to-do list?"

"Let's see," I start listing the things I've already crossed off, "Drive a car, see New York City, ride the London Eye, get James a girlfriend… those are just some of the things I've already done."

"And the things you haven't?"

"Become a doctor, get my parents to at least make peace with each other, see the Sistine Chapel with Harry—" before I even realize my slip, Sherlock pounces on it.

"Who's Harry?"

"My sister," I answer. Not a lie, of course, but not quite the whole truth.

"I didn't know you have a sister," Sherlock says.

"I don't talk about her much. We're not super close right now." Also not quite the whole truth.

"You're probably better off than my brother and I are. Mycroft's barely even human."

"You have a brother?"

"Yeah. But he acts like he's my Lord Protector."

"That sucks. Do your parents approve?"

"I don't know. They're dead, and Mycroft's my legal guardian." I immediately snap my mouth shut and blanch. Blindly stumbling across someone's tragic family history is not pleasant for any parties involved.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Don't worry about it. There was no way you could've known that. Besides, they weren't super involved when they were alive. They just threw money at things and expected them to get better. I only saw them face-to-face a couple times a year at most," he explains. I thought my own family was pretty messed up, but Sherlock's putting me to shame. My parents may not be able to stand each other, but at least I know they love me.

Sherlock's phone buzzes, and he happily shows me the dancing pill bottle icon that pops up. "Cevoflomalin time," he announces. He picks up his oxygen and carries it out of the gym, leaving me alone to force myself to stop feeling sorry. I also return to my room and find myself staring at all the photos I put on the walls. Most are of me and Harry at various stages of life. In each and every one, she's smiling brightly. She doesn't smile anymore.

~0~

I've been good about doing my treatments for days now, but the doctors and nurses always seem surprised to find me waiting nicely for them to come and administer treatment. Maybe they think I'm luring them into a false sense of security so it'll be easier for me to escape. If I still wanted to escape, that wouldn't be a half-bad plan.

I pull down the collar of my shirt to give Dr. Mortimer access to the port in my chest. My peripheral veins have become less and less usable over the years from countless IVs. I actually requested the port a while ago so I wouldn't have to endure the efforts of incompetent nurses poking me five or six times to try and get a vein they were never going to stick. It had been a simple, practically painless surgery; it saves them time, and saves me pain and frustration.

While the medicine slowly drips from the bag above the bed, I pull out my laptop and return to John's blog. His comments about his sister have made me a bit suspicious. "We're not super close right now," he had said. I could interpret that several different ways. John probably wants me to think that it means their relationship or sibling bond isn't very strong, but I know to read between the lines. His body language during that conversation had been all over the place. I scour the blog entries, looking for any mention of a sister named Harry. I find her all over the entries from the first few years.

"Soon I have to have a nasal polypectomy," I read. "The doctors say it's a minor procedure, but having CF makes everything a bit more complicated. Harry keeps telling me not to freak out, and I'm trying. I made her promise to stay until I fall asleep. We're hoping it goes well and I'll be able to breathe a bit better after I heal up."

I keep going, finding Harry's name mentioned in a few more posts. And then it abruptly stops. She seems to vanish from John's life entirely. There's no mention of a reason for her permanent absence. Determined for answers, I strap on a face mask and charge down the hall to John's room. I knock on the door, and he answers quickly, dancing back from the doorway when he sees who it is.

"You have yet to hold up your end of our deal," I say.

"You want to deduce me now?"

"Yes. Right now."

"Okay, go ahead. Um… are you just gonna stare at me, or walk me through the process, or what?"

I start with the slightly-less-personal deduction I've made: "Your G-tube is infected."

"What? How do you know that? Did Dr. Mortimer tell you?"

"No. As I said, I can look at you and read this kind of information."

"How?"

"I saw you clutching it at the gym earlier. It clearly hurts. And I can see the tube of antibiotic cream on your med cart."

"Well, now that you explain it, it seems rather simple."

"It's just observation. Now, part two."

"There's more?"

"Yes." I take a deep breath, slightly afraid of how John will react to this, but knowing I have to be direct if I want any sort of answer. "Harry's dead, isn't she?"

"What?! You can't possibly know that!" he shouts.

"Yes, I can." I try to keep my tone level because he's clearly losing it, but now I'm both nervous and guilty. "Your blog abruptly stops mentioning her. And you were clearly uncomfortable when we talked about her earlier. You didn't mean to say her name in the first place."

"Well, you're right. I'll give you that. But you have no right to just throw that in my face like that!" I take a step back, feeling the anger radiating off of him like heat. He starts shouting, and I can barely make out the words, but within seconds he's gasping for breath and barely able to form words. I'm afraid he'll make himself pass out if I stay any longer, so I retreat.

"I'm sorry John," I say as I make my way toward the door. "I didn't mean to upset you, I just wanted to understand." I close the door behind me, but remain close long enough to hear a muffled sob escape his throat.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's blatant deduction of Harry's death has me reeling for hours. I sit in my room and cry, even miss a dose of a medication I hadn't missed in years. I just can't bring myself to sit up and swallow the pills that will only keep me alive a bit longer. Ever since she passed, it's been more difficult to find reason to keep going. I used to dream of having healthy lungs so I could go on adventures with her and not hold her back. But now, that goal is unachievable.

I remember the day I got the news—easily the worst day of my life. It came during an already rough patch in my life; another infection had me on high levels of oxygen and practically bedridden for weeks. I remember willing myself to stay awake all night because I feared if I fell asleep my brain would decide that forcing these stupid lungs to breathe was too much effort. I actually smacked myself in the face a couple times when I felt myself drifting off. I think I managed thirty six hours without sleep before Dr. Mortimer confronted me and said if I didn't fall sleep they'd put something in the IV and force me down. I'm pretty sure that's unethical, and possibly illegal, but I was only fourteen years old and willing to believe whatever they told me.

I did fall asleep, half-expecting to never wake up again, and was more than a little surprised to open my eyes to my parents' faces looking down at me. But, even groggy from a much-needed sleep, I could tell from the looks on their faces that something was wrong. I managed to get my question out through some raucous coughing, and I'll never forget the look that passed between them as they prepared themselves to deliver the news.

"John… it's Harry," my mother said. "She was in an accident." I opened my mouth to ask more, but she silenced me and continued. "She didn't survive."

Let me just say that violently sobbing on top of not being able to breathe properly in the first place is the closest to torture I will ever get. My oxygen saturations fell so low that I heard them consider bagging me. I remember my vision tunneling until I literally passed out.

When I eventually came to, I had no idea how much time had passed. The first thing I wanted to do was ask my parents what had happened, how it happened, and what I could've done to prevent it. They knew what I wanted to say before I could even say it, and they insisted on not telling me anything more until I was better. I spent the next five days drifting in and out of consciousness, wondering what the hell happened to my sister. That limbo was just as painful as the crying, just a different kind of pain.

Miraculously, the infection began to ease and I full-on demanded an explanation from my parents. They told me that Harry died in a car accident. But I knew that wasn't the whole story. I threatened to run away to die somewhere if they didn't spill. They knew they had no other options, so they told me: Harry had gone drinking with some friends, then decided to drive home.

I'd never known my sister Harry to drink even an ounce of alcohol, so what had driven her to do such a thing? I knew there could only be one explanation: stress. It was all my fault. The precariousness of my condition had forced her to seek a chemical escape. I survived that horrible infection only to learn that my sister hadn't.

I couldn't even attend the funeral, as I was still hospitalized at the time. Maybe it was better that way. But for the entire time I was alone in that hospital room, I missed Harry. She'd been here for me through everything, sometimes skipping school to sit by my side when my only other company was Greg, who had to remain two meters away. Every time I had a surgery, she'd stand there as I fell asleep so that I'd dream of her the whole time. I've yet to face a procedure without her.

When I finally rein in the tears, I go to visit Greg, strapping on a double layer of face masks since I plan to be there a while. He knows what happened to Harry, so he'll understand why Sherlock's bringing it up would make me so upset.

"John, you've got to stop blaming yourself," he insists. "You don't even know that's why she did it. You made an erroneous conclusion based on too little evidence."

"Yeah, but what else could it even be?" I ask angrily.

"I don't know, she could've been coerced or something. You cannot know for sure that she did this because of you. You have to let it go. She wouldn't want you to be so hung up on this."

"At this point, I'm not even sure what she'd want for me. I used to feel like I knew her, and she knew me. But the Harry I thought I knew would never have done something like that."

"And the John I know does not throw pity parties. Yet here you are."

"This is not a pity party," I defend.

"Yeah, it kind of is. Look, your life sucks. It just does. You didn't ask to be born with CF, and you certainly didn't ask for your sister to die, but life doesn't always play fair. You and I both know that. You have to take what it's handed you and make the best out of it. The universe is trying to make you miserable. Don't let it."

The desire to run over and hug Greg is so overwhelming I actually grab the doorknob to keep myself in place. Instead, I take a deep breath and remember the drawing that sits above my own bed, the lungs of flowers and stars. That was Harry's dream for me, what she secretly wished for on her birthday every year, and I would not let her down.

"Thank you Greg," I say earnestly. "You always know what to say."

"That's so cheesy, don't say stuff like that." He puckers his lips in mock disgust.

"Fine. How about… you are always knowledgeable in the appropriate statement to use in a given situation."

"No, that's worse. That's definitely worse. Go back to the first one."

We both laugh as hard as our lungs will allow, and I feel the weight of Harry's death easing off my shoulders. I may not have her anymore, but Greg is the next best thing.

The happiness from that encounter lasts through the rest of the evening, until Dr. Mortimer makes another visit. She looks at my G-tube site, and I can see it in her eyes that she's not happy. The skin around it is, if possible, even redder than before, and oozing a bit of yellow fluid. Even from my limited medical knowledge, I know it's a bit not good.

"That bad, huh?" I ask Dr. Mortimer, trying to disguise my building panic.

"At this point, I'm afraid we're out of options. I'm worried about sepsis. We have to remove the infected tissue and replace the tube."

Yikes.

The notion of surgery makes most people nervous. Again, I'm not like most people—it makes me even more nervous. Right now, my lung function is hovering right around thirty to forty percent, making general anesthesia infinitely more dangerous. There's always a chance they'll never get me off the ventilator afterwards.

But sepsis would be even worse. That would almost certainly kill me. I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. I have to take this risk if I want to survive until new lungs become available. My thoughts wander to Harry, and how she always quelled my nerves before an operation. This time, I wouldn't have that support system.

~0~

John hasn't spoken a word to me since I 'outed' him for having a dead sister. I hate to admit it… but I miss him. We haven't even known each other that long, yet his absence from my life is palpable. He ignores my Skype calls, and when we pass in the hallways he stays four whole meters away instead of the required two. I regret being so blunt about Harry, but I fail to see how I could've predicted he would react like that. My mouth gets me in trouble more times than I'd like to admit, but Mycroft tells me that ordinary people are just too sensitive and can't handle the truth being thrown in their faces.

When the notification on my phone goes off, I'm tempted to ignore it and miss the dose. But despite the current state of my relationship with John, I don't want to let him down. So while he continues to ignore me, I continue to follow my regimen.

The next day, I accidentally overhear Greg on the phone with someone. From his tone and word choice, I figure it's his mother. I can only hear one half of the conversation, but it's not difficult to decipher what they're talking about: Greg's plans for university. Apparently, he's eager to go abroad, and his mother isn't one hundred percent behind him. Sherlock understands why she would be reluctant; CF parents are a special breed, hovering over their children much more closely than parents of healthy children. My own parents are the exception. Mycroft won't tell me if they were this aloof before I was born and diagnosed, so I have no choice but to conclude that they couldn't handle having a sick kid and distanced themselves as much as possible so they wouldn't have to watch.

Greg hangs up the phone and glances in my direction. I quirk an eyebrow at him, silently asking if he'd like to talk about it. He approaches, stopping just over two meters away, and tells me about his plans. As I listen to him outline his dream life for the next few years, I'm haunted by the possibility that he won't make it that long. Kids with cystic fibrosis aren't known for their long shelf lives. He doesn't have B. cepacia like I do, so he's still eligible for a lung transplant, but the list is long and people wait years to receive their organs.

I do have enough social sense not to tell him this, and I instead wish him the best of luck on convincing his mother to let him go. We say goodbye, and I return to my room. On the way, I run in to John. I expect him to move away as quickly as possible while avoiding my gaze, but instead he fixes those blue eyes on me. I can tell right away that something's amiss. People don't get that look in their eyes unless there's something dangerous afoot.

"What's wrong?" I ask him, without waiting for a greeting. Sometimes, bluntness is best.

"It's my G-tube," he explains. "The antibiotics aren't working."

I know without him having to say it what that means. Surgery. And surgery for someone with CF is incredibly risky. "I'm going under general," he adds to clarify. For once in my life, I have no idea what to say. What do you tell someone who's about to fall asleep, possibly never to wake up properly again?

"I'm sorry," is all I manage to produce. I stand there with my mouth hanging open, hoping my brain will spontaneously invent the perfect speech to give to John, but I just look like I'm trying to catch a fly. John rubs a hand over his face and returns to his room. I catch a glimpse of the sign warning nurses not to feed him after six tonight because of surgery in the morning. That image allows the idea to fully sink in.

I return to my own room thinking only of John and the horrible night he's about to have. I don't see how he could get any sleep while thinking about what will happen tomorrow. I don't think I will sleep thinking about what will happen tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Why do people use the expression 'carted off to surgery?' Criminals get carted off to prison. Animals get carted off to slaughter. Medieval corpses get carted off to be burnt or tossed in mass graves. Especially right now, I do not want to be associated with anything of the sort.

If I could, I'd walk there and remain standing until the last possible second just to reassure myself that I'm alive and hope I will remain so for the foreseeable future. Lying down just reinforces the fact that I'm completely at the mercy of the doctors and nurses around me. If they screw up, it's me who will suffer. My parents probably won't have the heart to sue for malpractice.

These are probably not the thoughts I should be having as I'm guided (not carted off) to surgery, but they're the only ones my brain can conjure up at the moment. My happy memories and pleasant dreams are locked away somewhere I can't find them. If all goes well, they'll be unlocked again.

A nurse starts an IV, and I can't be bothered to even feel the needle stick. I force myself to take breaths as deep as possible, but it doesn't do much to calm me down. Sometimes I wonder if I had healthy lungs, would taking deep breaths actually work? If I make it to a lung transplant, possibly I'll find out. Right now, I could really use some proper, oxygenating lungfuls, but I can't manage them.

The anesthesiologist working my case today is the same on I've had many times before; he's a good guy, making sure I know exactly what's going on and including me in the process as much as possible. When he enters the room, I know we'll soon be underway.

"How are you feeling, John?" he asks earnestly, checking on the wires and pre-prepared drugs on his cart.

"A bit nervous," I admit. There's no use hiding my fear from him. He can probably read it in my heart rate.

"That's okay. Everyone gets nervous. Just try to focus on something else, something that makes you happy." That's what I've been trying to do for the past twelve hours. "Get a good night's sleep," they told me, "You'll need it." Get a good night's sleep, I most certainly did not, and I definitely needed it. Drug-induced unconsciousness does not count as sleep, contrary to popular belief. I wake up feeling more tired than I do right now after being awake for nearly an entire day.

Another figure enters the room, dressed in scrubs and a face mask. I can see only his eyes, but I recognize the multi-colored irises immediately. Somehow Sherlock has weaseled his way in here to see me off. He parks himself in the corner of the room and gives a shy wave. If the other doctors suspect he doesn't belong, they don't say anything. Maybe some of them remember that I've had Harry here with me every time previously, that this is my first time without her.

She used to hold my hand, but obviously that's not an option for Sherlock. When they tell me to count down from one hundred, I zero in on Sherlock and focus on him. Ninety nine… I remember how we first met, me listening in on him prostituting out his hospital room. Ninety eight…how he nearly fell off the roof and I ran to rescue him like some knight in shining armor. Ninety seven…the conversations we had while doing our treatment together. I still can't quite believe I convinced him to do what his own brother and a slew of doctors couldn't.

Once I reach the mid fifties, thing are really fuzzy. I try to keep my eyes on Sherlock, but his figure keeps blurring in and out. I blink, and suddenly it's not him standing in the corner, but Harry. She smiles and waves, and I hear her promise she'll be there when I awaken. God, how I wish that were true.

~0~

How did I sneak into pre-op like that? Not important. What's important is that I got to be there for John during one of the scariest times in a CFer's life. Now that he's asleep, he won't worry anymore. He will wake up—I have complete faith in the staff here; though most of them are completely lacking in personality, I've never doubted their medical prowess—and won't stress about this anymore. Honestly, the worst part is the buildup. The anxiety is far worse than any surgical pain, plus they give really good drugs for surgical pain. Any mental relaxants simply can't compete, especially for someone as high-strung and controlling as John.

I leave the room and remove the scrubs I'd put on to get inside. I pass the waiting room, and I see two people who must be John's parents. They're arguing, that much is obvious, but about what I can't tell. I step closer and sit down a ways away, pretending to be minding my own business.

"I can't believe you," John's mother says.

"What? I only asked if I could get you anything," John's father defends. "I don't see anything wrong with that."

"Our son is in surgery, and you can't think about anything but your stomach! It's ridiculous."

"He's going to be there for a while, my starving isn't going to help or hurt him in any way. It's out of our hands. You can't tell me that you're determined not to leave this spot until we hear he's finished."

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Well, sitting still is only going to make me more antsy. I need to move around, and I might as well move towards something that is going to make me feel a bit better."

"Fine. Do whatever you want. But don't expect me to speak to you about it." She crosses her arms huffily and turns away from. He sighs dramatically and takes a step towards the hallway. Molly, who has evidently heard their every word, stops him in his tracks and draws John's mother's attention to her as well.

"You two should be ashamed of yourselves," she scolds. "I've seen hundreds of sick kids just like John come through here, some with two parents, some with one, even some with none. The way you're acting, John might as well be an orphan." Mrs. Watson looks scandalized, and I can't help but smile. She's getting what she deserves. I've seen Molly angry only a few times before, and it's a sight to behold. She could burn a hole in a wall with her gaze. "I understand if your home life isn't perfect, but you are both here for the same reason: to support your son. If you can't do that, you might as well leave. Stop focusing on everything you dislike about each other and focus on what you can do for John."

John's parents glance at each other, then turn back to Molly and nod curtly. She eyes them both again before leaving them alone. The two Watsons remain in absolute silence. Molly has done her job, and she's done it bloody well. I stand up and start towards my own room, planning to kill some time while I wait until I can see John again, when Molly catches sight of me. She fixes me with that same stare, and I wonder how she could possibly know about me sneaking in to see John. I hang my head and follow when she gestures for me to come with her.

She leads us to a relatively quiet corner of the hospital, and I can tell from the look on her face that she's about to embark on a lengthy lecture or recount a lengthy story. Turns out, she would do both.

"Sherlock Holmes, you've been spending far too much time with John Watson," she begins.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask. "I thought being friendly was encouraged." I've been told that I need to be friendlier countless times by countless people, and now I'm being scolded for doing just that? I don't understand.

"It's one thing to be friendly, and what I've witnessed between you and John is beyond friendly. And people like you are not allowed to be beyond friendly."

"I don't know what you think you see between us, but John and I are nothing more than friends," I insist. However, as the words leave my mouth I realize that—while they are true, as of now—I don't want them to be.

"I see enough. And I will not have it in this hospital. While you are under my watch, you will not go near John Watson."

"But why?"

"You know why. Not only are you both cystic fibrosis patients, you have B. cepacia. If he catches it from you, it will ruin his chance for new lungs. You could very well be the death of him."

"But we've been following the rules," I complain. The idea of never being allowed to see John again is simply unbearable. "Two meters."

"And I can tell just by looking at you two that you think that's too far. I will not be responsible for allowing you to ruin John's life."

"But I'm not ruining his life. I'm improving it by keeping him company. I promise we'll keep the two meters, but you can't force us to do more than that."

"Hopefully, I won't need to force you. I would hope you would listen to me."

"I've yet to find a good reason to," I snap. I don't mean to be rude to Molly, I know she means well, but I cannot understand why she would force me and John apart. We haven't even done anything wrong.

"Victor Trevor and Gloria Scott," she says.

"Who are they?"

"Two patients I had years ago. Victor had B. cepacia; they both had CF. I let them break the rules. They wanted to be together so badly, and I let them halve the two meters. They were so happy together, I thought I'd done the right thing. Then Gloria caught B. cepacia from Victor and was ripped off the top of the transplant list. She died within two years; he lasted another decade. Not a day goes by that I don't think about how I could've acted differently. Gloria would still be here, probably with healthy lungs, if I hadn't given in."

I listen raptly to her story, immediately seeing how John and I could end up on the same path. Because it's true; I would love to be able to close even mere centimeters of that distance that must keep us apart. But I can't. John is so close to attaining the new lungs he's waited his whole life for. If I get in the way, I would literally rip years off his life.

"I will not see the same tragedy play out again," Molly reiterates.

"Okay," I sigh. I know then and there that I must put as much distance between John and myself as this hospital will allow. I long ago came to terms with my own inevitable death, but John still has a chance. And under no circumstances will I be the one to destroy that chance.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm not dead. That's the first thought to cross my mind when I open my eyes back in my room. I half-expected to not make it through. Honestly, I was fully prepared to die before I caught sight of Harry when I fell asleep. She's what got me through most of my treatments, the reason I keep living.

As the fog in my brain slowly recedes, I take stock of my senses. There's a slight pain in my abdomen around the G-tube, but it's nothing compared to the pain of the infection before. I quickly glance at it and find the site already looking so much better. I sigh in relief and lean back against the bed. I feel dizzy from the dissipating anxiety.

First order of business: call Sherlock to let him know that I'm awake now and open for company. I pull out my phone and dial the now-familiar number. No answer. I figure he's occupied with something else, so I leave a message asking him to come and see me as soon as he's available. I'm slightly upset by the fact he didn't answer. I thought he'd be eager to hear from me given what just happened. Evidently, I was wrong.

Post-anesthesia drowsiness creeps up on me, and I set the phone aside and lay myself down. Within minutes, I'm down for the count. Fortunately, my sleep is dreamless, and I awaken again feeling refreshed and almost entirely back to normal. I grab my laptop and Skype Greg to let him know how I am.

"Hey John, how're you feeling?" he asks.

"So much better," I tell him.

"You glad to be alive?"

"Absolutely. For a while I wasn't so convinced it would turn out like this."

"Have a little faith in the surgeons here, John. They wouldn't have just let you go."

"It's not them I was worried about. It's these guys," I gesture to my chest and the failing lungs within it.

"Yeah, I guess we could all use a new pair of balloons. You'll get yours soon, I bet."

"I hope so." After a brief lull in the conversation, I move to the topic that's been at the back of my mind since this conversation began. I ask, "Have you seen Sherlock around? I woke up a few hours ago and left him a message, and he still hasn't gotten back to me."

"No, haven't seen him. Maybe his brother's making him do something or other."

"I've never even seen his brother."

"Well, he definitely exists. This drug trial he's on is so new, you have to know people to get in it."

"I don't doubt that his brother knows people. But I do doubt how much he knows his little brother. From what Sherlock tells me, he just throws money around and expects Sherlock to submit to whatever the leading medical experts suggest."

"I don't know what to tell you," Greg admits with a shrug. There's a knock at my door, and my parents enter the room. Both of them. Together. It's such a strange sight that for a moment I wonder if I really did die on the table and everything I've experienced since has been a crazy afterlife dream.

"Hey sweetie," my mother greets. She perches at the foot of my bed and offers me a smile. Dad hangs back a bit, but I can tell something in their relationship has changed since I fell asleep this morning.

"Hi Mum."

"How are you?" Dad inquires.

"I'm great," I say enthusiastically. Having that infection taken care of is an immense weight off my shoulders. "How are you two? You seem a bit… different."

"Nurse Molly talked some sense into us," Mum explains. "We decided to put aside our differences to be here for you, especially at a time like this."

I'm touched by the notion that they managed such a thing for my sake. They haven't gotten along in years, not since Harry died, and now they're downright civil. This is something I could get used to.

"That's great. But I'm okay here, if you two need to go and do your own thing," I tell them. From what I know about them, they won't be able to keep up this charade for very long. It's better for all of us if I send them off.

"You sure?" Dad asks.

"I'm sure."

"Call us if you need anything." My mother plants a kiss on my forehead, which I begrudgingly accept, and my father claps a hand over my shoulder before they both depart. Once they're gone, I realize that I actually want company, so I text Sherlock to ask him to come over. Once again, there's no answer. It's been hours since I left that voicemail, and he hasn't responded. Naturally, I start to worry.

Before I consider leaving my room in search of a nurse, I ask the only other person who might have any information. I text Greg and ask him for any information he has on Sherlock's whereabouts. If something dramatic happened, he'd know about it by now.

Greg texts back almost immediately, "Sherlock's not coming to see you."

"Why not?" I type out the message deliberately. My hands are starting to shake from fear.

"He doesn't want to see you anymore."

"Why not?" I repeat.

"He told me that things were getting too far. He's afraid you would slip and he'd give you B. cepacia."

"That's crazy."

"I'm just telling you what he told me."

"Did he tell you anything else?"

"Just that he's sorry. He doesn't want to upset you, but killing you is even worse."

"He's not going to kill me."

"Are you sure? B. cepacia is nasty."

"We're following the rules. I'm not going to catch it."

"He doesn't want to take that risk."

"What if I do?"

"It's not up to you."

Well maybe it is, I think to myself. If I have to choose between living without Sherlock and dying with him, there's no question which I'd choose. A life without him is not a life worth living. I pull up my blog, already formulating the post that might change the cystic fibrosis world forever.

~0~

"Hey Sherlock, it's John," his sleepiness is evident even through the phone. "I survived the surgery, which I guess I'm pretty happy about. I'm going to take another nap for the next few hours, but could you come visit me after? I could use some company. See you."

I listen to that message more times than I can count before I'm interrupted by a nurse bringing me dinner. Food hadn't even crossed my mind all day. I don't remember eating breakfast or lunch, but I suspect I did or else I'd be famished at this point. Or maybe I'm so preoccupied that my brain has silenced any nerve impulses being sent from my empty stomach. Regardless, I can't bring myself to eat more than a few sips of milkshake. They brought me chocolate even though I made it very clear that I prefer vanilla. Usually, I would complain, but I don't have the energy to do even that. John prefers chocolate.

It's thoughts of John that force me into action when my phone chirps with the notification for nighttime meds. An entire day has passed and I haven't seen John once. This hasn't happened since we met, and his absence gnaws at me like a persistent, hungry dog. I gather up my pills, double check the dosages with the app, and swallow them. After brushing my teeth, I crawl into bed and try to fall asleep.

The feeling that I'm forgetting something nags at me until I realize I'm not hooked up to the tube feed. It's extra important tonight since I managed so little dinner. I sit up and attach the tube to the button on my abdomen before settling down again. The old me wouldn't have bothered with something like this, but I'm clearly not the old me anymore. John made me a new man.

The next morning, I blearily open my eyes. My first coherent thought is of Molly's lecture. For a second, I hope it was a dream, but then I remember that it was very, very real. Her warning echoes in my head as I disconnect from the tube feed and get dressed for the day. I'm about to open the door to leave when I see a piece of paper on the floor.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm certainly no neat freak. My living space is always cluttered with debris—but it's always my debris. I know that this piece of paper does not belong to me. Which means it came from someone else.

I crouch down and pick up the paper, turning it over to find a hastily scribbled drawing. It depicts two stick figures, one labeled John and one labeled Sherlock. Above their heads is a scale like one would find on a map, but it extends from above John's head to a little beyond Sherlock's. The number on the scale reads two meters. The figures are not on opposite ends of the scale, meaning they're closer than two meters.

I instinctively know that John made this, because the handwriting matches that on the to-do lists I peered at. And this is exactly the kind of thing he would do. But why did he do it? What does it mean? I can't exactly go ask him, because that would involve contact. And I can't text him, because I've already ignored several of his texts and it's weird to un-ignore someone like that. I need more information before I can decide my course of action, so I consult the be-all-end-all source of information on John Watson: his blog.

As I expected, I find a post with yesterday's date on it. Eagerly, I open it and begin to read: "Cystic fibrosis has taken nearly everything from me. My health, my childhood, my sister, and my parents' relationship were all ruined by this disease. And I'm not the only one. Thousands of children suffer exactly as I do, but we cannot properly comfort each other because we're not allowed physical contact. CF is perfectly designed to ensure its victims are totally isolated. But what if we didn't have to be? What if we tried to get just a little closer? What if two meters apart is actually too far?

I, for one, am done with letting cystic fibrosis control my life. No longer will I allow it to keep me two meters away from those I love, and screw the consequences. Who knows, maybe that measurement is arbitrary, chosen entirely because it's a nice even number that's easy to remember. And who's to say that one and a half meters isn't sufficient to keep both of us safe from each other? It's a risk I'm willing to take. Will you take it with me?"

Even though this is published on John's blog with thousands of followers, I know that last line is directed at me. I'm the person he loves, the person that cystic fibrosis is barring him from. And he's the person that cystic fibrosis is barring me from. If even one of us were free from this terrible disease, we'd be together. But unfortunately, that's not the case. However, we can still make the most of what time we have left by spending it together. Who cares if it happens to be slightly less time?

I text John and apologize for ignoring him. I write out an entire paragraph explaining what Molly told me about Victor and Gloria and how I didn't want to be responsible for giving John the disease that ruined his chance for new lungs. I had severed contact so abruptly in the hopes that he'd be mad at me. If he was mad at me, he wouldn't be sad that we could never see each other again. He responded with an equally long declaration of his total willingness to risk losing the chance at new lungs in favor of gaining even a few precious centimeters. We're not planning to completely close the distance—that would practically be suicide for both of us, and Molly would probably deport me—but even a mere half a meter feels like infinity.

John requests that I meet him in the hospital atrium tonight at nine, a request which I immediately promise to grant. This night, we will break the rules. We will explore the unexplorable: the sensation of being slightly-less-than-two-meters apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who actually suffers from cystic fibrosis, I'm sure this breaking the rules sounds unimaginable. I'm not saying I condone this-of course a person's health is more important-but this is how it went in the book and it was too big a plot point to even dream of changing.


	9. Chapter 9

"Greg, please tell me why I didn't pack anything worth wearing on a first date," I say to my laptop. I had called him almost immediately after telling Sherlock to meet me in the atrium in the hopes that he would both help me plan and calm me down.

"Because this is a hospital, not a five star hotel," he replies. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't have a three piece suit on me."

"No, it doesn't make me feel any better. If you did, I might've borrowed it."

"Sorry to let you down mate." Greg watches me discard five more tee shirts before commenting, "Sherlock probably won't care what you wear. I'll bet he didn't pack anything dressy for his stay here either."

"You don't know that!" I know I sound irrational, but my nervousness is depleting my reserves of common sense. "He probably brings his whole wardrobe wherever he goes."

"John, I think you're making a ridiculous assumption." He's trying to calm me down, and I must commend him for the effort, but at this point I'm beyond consolation. I might just freak out and bail. But I fabricated such a dramatic lead-up that backing out now would be a decision I regret for life. Reluctantly, I settle on an oat-colored jumper and a faded pair of jeans. It's not much, but it'll have to do. When I show Greg what I've chosen, he readily approves and wishes me good luck before hanging up.

I venture out of my room and to another section of the hospital. Tucked away in the back is a small game room. I only know of its existence because Harry made me come here to play with her one time, but I haven't been since her death. These sorts of things just never really interested me. But I know for a fact that the room contains a billiards table, complete with balls, chalk, and cues. It's the cues I'm after tonight, so I enter the room—which is fortunately empty—and snatch one. A pool cue is about a meter and a half long, five feet in America, so it will serve me and Sherlock perfectly.

I begin to make my way to the atrium at five to nine. I stand there for a couple minutes, feeling like an idiot holding nothing but a pool cue. I feel grossly unprepared for a first date. I glance around the room and my gaze settles on a rosebush towards the front of the room. I lean the pool cue against a wall and use both hands to gingerly snap the stem, freeing a particularly well-formed rose from the bush. I go through and pick all the thorns off, leaving just the flower and smooth stem behind. Content, I return to the center of the atrium and wait for Sherlock to arrive.

At exactly nine o'clock, I see his curly mop of dark hair bobbing towards me. My heart flutters, and I increase the strength of my grip on the pool cue. My palms are sweating, but I don't dare wipe them on either my jumper or the pool cue. Sherlock nears, but he stops the prescribed two meters away. He's wearing a purple dress shirt and trousers—significantly dressier than what I managed to procure, but not overly so. I'd feared he might show up in a tuxedo and bow tie, so I'm perfectly content to seem mildly underdressed.

"Good evening," I greet casually. I'm leaning on the pool cue as if it's a lacrosse stick, and I know I must look intensely awkward, but I can't bring myself to care. All that matters in that moment is Sherlock is not only done with ignoring me, he has agreed to join me on this excursion.

"Good evening," he returns. "Why the pool cue? Are we playing?"

"No. It's just a placeholder." I extend the wooden stick, holding the other end out for him to grasp. "Somewhat less than two meters long."

"Ahh, perfect," he chimes, wrapping his hand around the other end. With my other hand, I extend the rose to him. He takes a quick step even closer to accept it, and then retreats to his end of the pool cue. He tucks the rose into his breast pocket and thanks me. "Do you want to know a fun fact about roses?" he asks.

"Sure."

"Back when tuberculosis was both common and fatal, white handkerchiefs were embroidered with small red roses so that it was less obvious when people coughed up blood," he explains. I find this both morbid and fascinating.

"You and I could use some rose-embroidered handkerchiefs."

"I guess we could."

"Why didn't they just carry red hankies?" I inquire.

"Too expensive to dye all of the fabric," he replies.

"Well, that makes sense."

"Sort of. Hiding symptoms of a contagious disease isn't exactly ideal, but people back then weren't the brightest."

"No, they were not. It's a good thing medicine has improved, otherwise we'd have died ages ago."

"True. I used to think an early death was preferable," he says. "But that was before I met you."

~0~

Before the words are even out of my mouth, I regret them. What I've just said to John is hopelessly romantic and sentimental. Mycroft has told me from a young age that such emotions will only get me into trouble, and Mycroft is never wrong when it comes to such matters. If John doesn't feel the same way, he'll be forced to 'let me down easy,' which is uncomfortable for all involved parties. But his mouth quirks up into a smile, which soon turns into a fully-fledged grin, and I'm compelled to reciprocate. We stand there in the atrium, smiling at each other like idiots, clinging to this pool cue, before I guide us to sit down on a nearby bench. This side of the atrium is empty this time of night, so we're free to converse however we like as long as we're not shouting. I work up the courage to ask a question that's been nagging me almost since I met John.

"How long have you been coming here?" I question. He seems so comfortable with all the staff that they seem almost like his family. I've never stayed in one place long enough to build any sort of relationship, but I'm wondering just how long a tenure is required to build friendships like his. Not necessarily because I want to participate in such fraternization, but because I'm curious.

"Since I was six."

"Wow, that's a long time."

"Yeah, well… my parents really trust the doctors and nurses here. And it's close by. We don't have any reason to go anywhere else. Molly and Martha are basically my aunts."

"Do you have any real aunts?"

"No. My parents are both only children. You?"

"If I do, I have no idea. The Holmes family isn't exactly a close-knit bunch."

"Why not?" John asks innocently. "Do you have some blood feud going on?"

"I'm afraid it's nothing so exciting as a blood feud. Everyone's just so preoccupied with their own business that they don't make any time for family. If Mycroft and I weren't related, he would have dumped me at the nearest orphanage years ago."

"That's not true."

I admire his trust of my brother, but it's misplaced. I know Mycroft, and he has no emotional attachment to me whatsoever. "You don't know Mycroft like I do," I tell John. "He doesn't care."

"He's your brother. Of course he cares."

"Being siblings may automatically mean caring where you come from, but where I come from that's not how it works. He keeps me alive out of a sense of duty to my parents, but that's about it."

"That's so sad," John remarks. He looks at me like I'm a three-legged puppy in an animal shelter. I'm not used to pity. Mycroft has never pitied me, and it triggers an uncomfortable sensation deep in my gut.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I say. "In two days I'll be eighteen and I can do whatever I want."

"And what exactly is it that you want to do?"

"Leave this place and go have a little fun. Tell my brother to fuck off. Although, I've already done that second one many times before, this time he'll actually have to listen."

"Sherlock, your brother must care about you to some degree. I know it."

"But you don't know him."

Finally, he drops the subject. We remain in silence for a few moments, when suddenly John perks up. I can tell he has an idea, so I follow him as he pulls the pool cue along behind him. He leads us to the hospital gym, but continues through it to a door at the back. I've never been here before, but I smell where we're going before I see it. The unmistakable odor of chlorine.

"I didn't even know the hospital had a pool," I comment.

"It's not common knowledge. Most people here are too ill to use it."

"Does that include us?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but any activity that involves holding your breath is not my idea of a fun time. But I'm feeling pretty good after being here for a while and am willing to give it a go."

"Okay. But not right away, okay?" We take off our shoes and socks and sit down by the edge of the pool, letting our feet dangle in the water. It's dark, so the pool is lit by interior lighting that makes it glow like some magical potion. Though we're still on opposite ends of a pool cue, I can feel John next to me like never before. A few centimeters and I feel close enough to him to ask the most painful question he ever receives: "How did Harry die?"

John sighs. I know he doesn't ever want to tell this story—I don't like talking about my parents' death, even though I wasn't even close to them in the first place, so it must be worse for him to discuss the sister he loved so dearly. But I deserve to know, and John recognizes that.

"She drank and drove," John begins. There must be more to the story, because that's not enough for him to be as guilt-ridden as he clearly is. People drink and drive all the time. Although it's a stupid, suicidal thing to do, I've learned that people as a whole aren't all that smart. "She did it because of me."

That I admittedly wasn't expecting. But I don't have much time to ponder over it, because John plows through the rest of the explanation as if he's being timed, "I was really sick for a while. The doctors weren't sure I would make it through. I guess Harry was stressed, so she did something to ease the pain and it cost her her life."

"John, that doesn't make it your fault," I insist. Of course he would blame himself no matter how tenuous his connection to the cause of her death is. Harry made a decision based on circumstances beyond John's control. It was a poor decision, but there was nothing John could have done to change that.

"I know it's not exactly my fault," he insists. "But if it weren't for me and my CF, she'd still be here."

"You don't know that. Unfortunately, you can't ask her what made her drink that night. Maybe it was something else entirely. You can't beat yourself up over what was only one possible reason."

"I guess you're right," he sighs. "I just miss her."

"I know." I still miss my parents, though they were never really around in the first place. The idea that they're utterly unreachable is disconcerting. "It'll get easier," I offer.

"I hope so."

I glance around to make sure we're still alone, and then look to the bottom of the pool, distorted by the rippling water. My fingers find the buttons of my shirt and start undoing them one by one. I can see John turn his eyes my direction, although he's clearly trying not to make it obvious that he's looking. I couldn't care less if he sees my bare chest; it's been shown to countless doctors who are essentially strangers. Besides, it's just Transport.

Next thing I know, John's slid his own jumper over his head. My gaze tracks over the multitude of scars littering his torso, and I know he's doing the same to me. My brain offers the name of the procedure that would leave such a mark, but I silence it. I don't need to focus on his illness right now, or my own. I want to focus on us.

Abandoning the pool cue, I slide into the pool. I let the water seep into my hair and weight it down, relishing in the coolness. I can't stay under for very long before my lungs demand I supply them with more oxygen, so I surface spluttering and coughing.

"Didn't I mention that activities involving holding your breath are not my idea of fun?" John teases. His hair is still dry, meaning he was smart and kept his head above water. Once the coughing subsides, I'm able to respond meekly.

"Worth it," I manage. John dunks his head for a second or two, not long enough to nearly drown like I did, then comes back up for air.

"First it was nearly jumping off the roof, now it's nearly drowning. You do have a death wish, don't you?"

"Maybe. But at the moment I'm rather glad I didn't drown." Where the hell is all this sentimental nonsense coming from? In the past, I've prevented myself from making friends. Primarily because I knew that I'd be moving on to the next hospital in the next country within a few months, but secondly because nobody deserves to be my friend. It's no easy job. Only a fellow CFer like John or Greg can really understand and relate to me in the ways necessary to be a proper friend. But of course, I'm kept from them by a fixed distance. Even now as I break the rules with John, I feel every centimeter that still separates us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than anything I've written before, this story has challenged my versatility. Even though I took the plot from a book I'd already read, I still adapted the dialogue and changed the descriptions of events into my own words to suit these new characters. This is certainly a far cry from what I usually write about, but I'm really enjoying how it's helping me to grow as a writer.


	10. Chapter 10

From my spot in the hospital pool, I can just make out the lights in the park a few blocks away. Ever since I was little, I've always wanted to see those lights up close in person. I have no idea what they are or if they signify something special, but they're mysterious and alluring. Maybe it's only because I cannot see them clearly from here.

"You know," I tell Sherlock. "Those lights in the park over there, do you know anything about them?"

"No. Why?" he asks.

"I've always wondered about them. My parents never took me to see them."

"They're probably just part of some display. It's not Christmas."

"I know that. I just think they're pretty." Just like I think you're pretty, I want to say. But I don't, of course, because I'm afraid of scaring him off. Just the thought of such a forceful statement makes me jump. And then I actually jump at the sudden noise from the side of the pool.

Both of our phones are buzzing with a nighttime medication alert. Sherlock and I meet eyes, and I see my own panic reflected in his multi-colored irises.

"Molly," we state simultaneously. She'll be in to check on us any minute now, and when she doesn't find us where we're supposed to be, she'll go on the warpath. If she discovers us here, together, less than two meters apart, she'll murder the both of us and stuff our bodies in the morgue with false toe tags.

Sherlock and I leap out of the pool, dry off as quickly as possible, pull our shirts over our heads, and start sprinting back to the hospital. Without verbal discussion, we veer on the path towards the NICU. At least that's a reasonable place for us both to be; we visit there all the time. By the time we get there, we're breathless and about to keel over from exertion. A few minutes later, Molly storms in. Fortunately, we've both managed to stop heaving and she doesn't suspect we've been up to no good.

"Sherlock, John, why are you up here so late? And why are you together?" she asks inquisitively.

"I was already here," I explain. "Spending time with the babies. And then Sherlock showed up, presumably to do the same." He nods in acknowledgment that what I said is true. It's a perfectly reasonable story.

"I want you both in bed," she commands. We nod and follow her outside. Apparently, she trusts us enough to leave at the entrance to the CF ward. It's a misplaced trust, but I'm glad she still has faith in us.

"I had fun tonight," I tell Sherlock, once Molly's long gone.

"Me too," he replies.

"Almost as much fun as I'm going to have on your birthday." A plan is already formulating itself in my head, and I'm probably going to stay up late to execute it. Sherlock's eighteenth birthday is immensely important to him, and I want to make it one to remember.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"You'll see. We bid each other goodnight and close our respective doors.

~0~

I go to bed that night with my head buzzing excitedly. I've broken countless rules in my lifetime, but none filled me with such a sense of accomplishment. And having a partner in crime makes all the difference.

I wake up on the morning of my eighteenth birthday and my first thought isn't of my newfound freedom. I've dreamed of this day for years now, and I thought I knew for sure that I'd awaken thinking only of my new life without Mycroft's rules. Instead, I'm focused entirely on John and our time together the previous evening. I can still feel the energy between us, resonating up and down the length of the pool cue.

The first thing I want to do is go and see John, but Molly's out patrolling the corridors and I can't run the risk of being discovered. She's already suspicious after finding us together in the NICU last night, and another interaction would cause her to watch us even more closely. I still remember her story about Victor and Gloria, the couple she allowed to break the rules. They were in love, and Molly had considered that more important than their health. I don't want me and John to end up like that. His death is not one with which I could cope.

Instead of going to see him, I take my morning meds alone, eat breakfast, and idly flip through books. Whatever hospital we go to, Mycroft ensures we bring a small library. I don't even like to read all that much, especially not about the topics he enjoys, but apparently he considers it a necessity. Whatever Mycroft considers necessary is what's brought along on our travels throughout the world. My preferences always play second fiddle.

He's coming to visit today both for my birthday and for an update on the Cevoflomalin course. Actually, those are listed in the wrong order—he's coming for a medication update that just so happens to fall on my birthday. I'm not expecting much to come out of this, as I didn't have any faith in the drug trial to begin with, but I know that Mycroft is clinging to the hope that this will work. If it doesn't, he's out of options and will be forced to let me go. That's an eventuality I've been awaiting almost my entire life.

Mycroft arrives around midmorning, flouncing about the place in a finely tailored suit. No matter where he goes, he acts like he owns everything in sight. As a matter of fact, he could own everything in sight if he chose to purchase it; he has that kind of power. Most people find him intimidating. I find him annoying.

I hear him coming before I see him. He carries this stupid umbrella with him wherever he goes, using it as a walking stick or something. He doesn't need a walking stick, he just uses it to look pompous. It gives his gait an unmistakable sound with a sharp thwack punctuating every few steps as the tip strikes the floor.

He doesn't bother to knock, just barges into my room. I want to remind him that it's poor manners not to knock, but I don't think he'd take too kindly to the comment. Mycroft finds manners innumerably important when dealing with anyone but me. I am merely his irksome little brother, and am therefore unworthy of his politesse.

"Good morning, brother mine," he greets cheerily.

"Good morning." I don't want to respond to him, but I know I'll pay dearly if I don't reciprocate his greeting.

"Happy birthday."

"I'm surprised you even remembered," I grumble.

"And why is that?

"I figured your brain is too full of appointment dates and nuclear launch codes to save a spot for the anniversary of my birth."

"Well, I assure you that this special day has a reserved spot."

"I must say I'm honored."

Mycroft sighs histrionically, and I smirk. If there's one thing I enjoy doing, it's driving my elder brother batty. His mere presence automatically dials my maturity level down to irritated toddler. However, our bickering is interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Mortimer. I can tell by the look on her face that she comes bearing news. Mycroft takes a seat in one of the chairs to the left of my bed, and I sit up on the edge, my feet dangling over the floor.

"The Cevoflomalin has had no effect," Mycroft announces. The doctor is supposed to be the one delivering news in a situation like this, but my brother never waits around for them to first placate us, then sugarcoat the bad news, and finally discuss other options. He knows what they're going to say before they even know how they're going to say it.

Dr. Mortimer is momentarily stunned by his deduction, but she doesn't deny it. "Unfortunately, you're correct," she says solemnly. "The drug has not been effective in eliminating the B. cepacia in your case. We would've expected it to start working by now. I'm sorry I don't have better news for you."

Mycroft subtly rolls his eyes—he hates it when doctors apologize for failing. I tune out for a bit while they discuss if they should bother continuing the drug administration for a while longer just to be totally sure it's a dud. As if I'd let them force feed me more magic potions now that I myself have the power to give consent. I think they reach an agreement not to continue treatment, though I'm not paying very close attention, and Dr. Mortimer shows herself out.

"Well, that was a productive use of our time," I drawl sarcastically. I'd told Mycroft countless times that I didn't want to do the drug trial, that it wouldn't work, that it would just be a waste of time and resources, but of course he didn't listen. To him, I'm just some unfinished puzzle that needs solving. He's looked all over the world for the missing pieces, and he refuses to learn that some of them simply don't exist.

"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood to play games right now." That's what he refers to sarcasm as: playing games. Apparently my dry wit is beneath him.

"Why not? It's my birthday, shouldn't we be celebrating?"

"We've just been told that our last hope for a cure has failed, and you want to celebrate?"

"Mycroft, I told you before we even came here that I didn't think it would work. You didn't listen. You never listen."

"Of course I listen—" he's cut off by my next angry outburst.

"Yeah, you listen to the doctors. You listen to the people who tell you what's wrong with me and how they plan to try and fix it. But the one person you never listen to is me. If you had listened, you would know I don't want any of this."

"Why not?"

"Because I think there's more to life than just prolonging it. There's no point in working to live another day if it'll be spent only working to live yet another. Mycroft, I'm more than just a malfunctioning pair of lungs in a body that needs to be kept alive. I'm a person with likes, dislikes, interests, disinterests, and feelings that you've never even stopped to consider. You're not doing all of this because you care about me; you're doing it just to prove that you can."

"Oh Sherlock," he sighs, looking at me wistfully. It might be my imagination, but I think I see the beginnings of a tear glistening in his left eye. "That's not true."

"You've yet to present me with any evidence to prove it's not true. Everything you've ever done is just to preserve and prolong my life. Why do you even bother?"

"Because…" The look on his face is one I've never seen before. Mycroft always wears an expression of disdain, as if he knows something you don't and is more than happy to rub it in your face. But now he seems sad, almost regretful. "…Your loss would break my heart."

Mycroft doesn't stick around to let that comment resonate. He flees from the room, and I probably won't see him again for weeks. Part of me wants to chase after him, but I know I'll get no more information out of him even if I manage to catch him. He left behind a package at the foot of the bed, likely my birthday present. I grab the box and start to open it, wondering what sort of lame gift he got me. We never talk about benign interests or hobbies, so I expect it will be something ridiculously practical, like a bath towel or socks. Instead, when I open the box, I'm greeted with a stack of books that I'd be genuinely interested in reading: one on forensic pathology and crime scene investigation, another on beekeeping, and another on some of the most famous murders ever committed.

I marvel at the books and wonder how on Earth he chose them. They represent intimate knowledge of my latest interests, knowledge that I didn't think my brother had. I thought he only saw the disease inside of me instead of the human being, but evidently I was wrong. Immediately, I feel bad for accusing him of such horrible things. Ever since he took charge, he's done nothing but try to keep me safe and healthy. At first, I thought it was out of a sense of duty to our parents, and then I thought it was a competitive drive to win against CF. But now I know that he genuinely cares for me, not just physically, but for my mental health. He legitimately doesn't want me to die, a notion that's hard for me to swallow.

I found it strange when John took an interest in my treatment regimen. I didn't understand how a stranger could care so much about my habits and whether they were conducive to me surviving to breathe another day. I didn't think that Mycroft cared about that sort of thing either, until today. That interaction proved to me how much my elder brother cares about my well being—physical, mental, and emotional.

After that realization, I'm hardly in the mood to celebrate. And that mood drops even lower when I receive a text from Philip and Sally telling me that they won't be coming today like they planned. I can't believe they have the nerve to bail on me when they know perfectly well how important this day is for me.

I'm angry enough to ignore several texts from John. Not because I'm upset with him, but because the sound of my phone simply doesn't register the first few times. My brain is like that, unfortunately. When it's focused on something, it elects to ignore anything unrelated to the point where my senses literally don't process. It's great for studying, but for someone on a strict medication schedule it's not ideal. Eventually, John calls me, and the sustained ring tone I do hear.

"Check your texts," he states quickly, then hangs up. What the hell? I open up my messages and see approximately ten texts from John asking me to respond and let him know I'm here. I quickly text him that I'm now paying attention, and he responds with an 'about time.'

"What's all this about?" I ask him.

"Molly's going to be by your room soon. She's bringing you a surprise," he writes.

"My death sentence?"

John responds with a laughing emoji. "No. You'll see."

I sense that's the end of the conversation, so I put the phone down and wait for Molly's arrival. Within minutes, there's a knock at my door and I invite her in. She hands me a plain envelope with my name written on it in John's handwriting. I eagerly open it, expecting a simple birthday card from John, but instead there's a handwritten letter.

"I could do something simple and boring for your special day, but you deserve more than that. I'm going to make you work for it. I've arranged a bit of a game, with stupid rhyming riddles and everything. Here's your first clue: You've not reached the answer yet, go to the place we officially met."

I smile at this silly yet endearing idea. John took the time to write up these little riddles for me. They're not particularly clever—Mycroft would turn his nose up at the mere idea—but the thought behind it matters more. I think for a moment on where John and I met. Technically, it was right here outside my room where he saw me with Philip and Sally, but a quick look proves that's not what he had in mind. Where we officially met must be somewhere else. The NICU! That's where we learned each other's names. I briskly walk over to the NICU and am rewarded with another envelope from one of the nurses.

I tear into the envelope, enjoying this game far more than an adult probably should, and read the text inside: "This next clue is silly; you'll probably scoff, head up to where you nearly fell off." That one requires a lot less thought, and I start up the staircase to the roof. I could take the elevator, but I'm in such a good mood already that I feel like I could run without losing my breath.

I don't even need to open the door to the roof, which is good because I don't have my anti-alarm supplies on me. Tucked up next to the door jamb is another envelope inscribed with my name. "Your search is almost complete, now come join us where everyone eats." Join us? What exactly is this scavenger hunt leading me to? I ponder this as I return down the stairs and make my way towards the hospital cafeteria.

When I arrive, I'm greeted by John, Greg, his friends James and Mike, and even Philip and Sally. They didn't blow me off after all, just tricked me into thinking I'd have to spend my birthday alone to contribute to John's surprise. "Happy birthday!" they shout eagerly.

"John, did you set this up?" I ask, even though I know it was him. No one else would think to do something so sweet. He nods shyly and brings me to a table they've laid out. I have no idea how he managed this, but he's obtained all of my favorite foods. We never talked about this, so I must assume he learned it from someone else.

"I talked to Mycroft on his way out of the hospital this morning," John announces.

"And hijacked my friends, apparently," I remark, eyeing Philip and Sally.

"We're sorry, but he told us we had to be here," Philip says.

"He was rather insistent," Sally adds. I have seen firsthand how insistent John Watson can be, so I forgive them. We sit down around the table, and fortunately the four additional friends provide enough of a buffer to keep two meters between the three of us with CF. There's no alcohol on the table, but I propose a toast anyway. Not to me or my ascent into adulthood, but to the departed Harry Watson.

Everyone chimes in as we raise our glasses, "To Harry!"


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock's party turns out even better than I hoped it would. As I wrote the scavenger hunt clues last night, I worried that he might find it childish and unworthy of his time. Fortunately, he tells me it was both adorable and enjoyable. We drink and dine and talk while maintaining the regulated two meters between me, Greg, and Sherlock. If we didn't have additional friends to invite, I'm not sure what we would've done.

Greg stands up to go check on his baking in the oven, and I follow him. He was more than happy to make a dessert for Sherlock's party, indulging in a secret passion of his. However, on such short notice, he had to stick to a relatively simple recipe.

"How does it look?" I ask him as he stares into the oven.

"It'd done," he announces, pulling it out with two big oven mitts. I can smell the cake before I even catch sight of it, and I inhale a deep enough breathe to make my lungs protest. That's how I know a dish is good—I struggle to breath just trying to properly enjoy its scent. Greg places eighteen candles in the cake after it cools and brings it to the table. I light them, since Greg's afraid of fire, and Sherlock demands we skip the song.

Despite Sally and Philip's protests, we forego singing and let him make a wish. "If I blow these candles out, neither of you can eat it," Sherlock tells me and Greg. He's right; if he exhales all over it, it would be off limits for us. Now that I think about it, blowing out candles on food is an unsafe practice for anybody. Millions of bacteria could be transferred. However, Sherlock delegates the job to Sally and she extinguishes them for us.

Greg insists on cutting the cake since he was the one to make it. His lines aren't straight and some of the pieces are twice as big as others, but nobody bothers to comment on that. It's delicious, and that's what really matters. Mike asks Greg for the recipe, and they spend a good ten minutes discussing various aspects of baking. I hear snippets about light versus dark brown sugar, but for the most part I listen to Sherlock.

He's telling Philip, Sally, and James about his plans for living out the rest of his life. But he makes it very clear that these used to be his goals, and that they've changed due to recent circumstances. "John has helped me to see the value of medical treatment," he explains. "Now that I've experienced breathing easier, I'm not sure I could ever go back."

"If it weren't for me, you'd still be huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf," I joke.

"Who's that?" he asks. For a second, I think he's kidding. I begin to laugh, but I barely last a second before I read his expression and realize that he genuinely has no idea what I'm talking about.

"You've never heard of the Big Bag Wolf?" James questions. Four of us stare at each other, mouths agape, because we cannot believe that in eighteen years of life Sherlock has never heard of such an infamous character.

"The villain from the Three Little Pigs?" I try to jog his memory with famous lines from the fairy tale, but nothing works. "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin?" No reaction. "I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down?" Nothing. "You've never heard that story?"

"No. Mycroft wasn't exactly the nursery rhyme type of nurturer. He'd throw me a physics textbook and mutter a 'good evening' before turning out the light," Sherlock explains.

"You've got to be kidding me. Even when you were little?" He nods in affirmation. "Okay, that needs to change. Tonight, we're Skyping and I'm reading you a proper bedtime story."

"Shouldn't one have his last bedtime story long before turning eighteen? It seems rather incorrect to receive the first one on such an occasion."

"No, it seems rather out of place for an adult to be unaware of such well-known stories. Tell me, what else don't you know?"

"How can I tell you that if I don't know?" he asks. I'm about to retort when the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Like an animal sensing a predator, every kid who's ever stayed here can feel when she's coming. Molly. We don't have time to separate or disguise ourselves before she's on top of us.

"What is going on here?" she questions angrily. Reflexively, I take another huge step away from both Sherlock and Greg, as if it'll make up for being out here. None of us is wearing a face mask like we're supposed to when we go around the hospital, but it's too late to fix that now.

Greg is the first one brave enough to speak up, "We're celebrating Sherlock's eighteenth birthday."

"Is that a crime?" Sherlock asks innocently. I can hear the cheekiness in his tone, but I really hope that Molly cannot. Talking back is about the only thing that could make this situation worse. I learned long ago that nothing, absolutely nothing, will appease an angry Molly except for blind obedience. I prepare to go along with whatever she says; however, I am unready for the severity of the punishment she doles out.

"You three are putting each other in great danger just by being out here. I expect this from Sherlock, but not from you, John. I thought you knew better than that. To your rooms, immediately. And you, Mr. Holmes, shall be placed in isolation so you cannot further endanger your peers."

"What? You can't—" I start. Sending Sherlock to isolation is so beyond unfair that I can't even find the words to protest.

"Yes, I can, John Watson. Now do as I say or I will have you all restrained until you can learn to behave." Her tone leaves no room for argument, and the three of us file out of the room in two-meter intervals. I don't even manage to say goodbye to James and Mike.

I hang my head the entire trek back, not wanting to look up and see Greg or Sherlock marching along with me. When I get to the room, I flop down on the bed and bury my face in the pillow. No tears come. Though I feel like crying, my body cannot muster the energy to force them from my eyes. Eventually, I roll over and my gaze falls on Harry's lung drawing. That drawing has kept me company through countless rough days, but now it feels like it's mocking me. If this is what it takes to achieve healthy lungs, then I don't want them. Staying away from my friends is a price I'm no longer willing to pay. I want to be able to read things over their shoulder, high-five them when they're hyped, and hug them when they're sad. People don't stop to think how crucial physical contact is to any relationship—romantic or platonic—until they're barred from it.

I'm angry at cystic fibrosis, at Molly, at the universe itself for the cruel fate it's assigned me. Rage boils inside me until I can practically hear the blood pounding in my head. But it's not just in my head; it's coming from across the hall. The code alarm is blaring, alerting the hospital staff to a patient in urgent need of help.

"Code blue! Code blue!" I hear the shouts and the stampeding feet, and my heart leaps into my throat. I dash to my door and open it just wide enough to see where the stream of personnel is leading: Greg's room. All rational thought abandons me, and I follow the frantic noise and scramble into his doorway.

He probably just messed up his monitoring again. That's the hopeful thought that my brain offers, but it's soon silenced by the sights and sounds of doctors working to resuscitate Greg. His lungs must've just completely given up, providing his heart with zero percent of the oxygen it requires to keep functioning. I watch, paralyzed with fear, as they perform CPR. The sheer violence of it makes me want to throw up and pass out all at once.

Suddenly, there's a hand on my wrist wrenching me away from the doorway. I try to fight against it, but whoever it is is far stronger than I am, and they easily drag me away and back to my own room. "You don't need to watch," Molly's voice tells me. I know it's her even though I haven't the strength to look up at her face. She holds me while I cry into her shoulder, listening to several rounds of, "Clear! Shocking." They try three times before they fall silent. I'm too far away to hear the whispered announcement of the time of death, but I know it's there. I know they stop trying after so long.

Greg is dead.

~0~

I hear the commotion from down the hallway and it fills me with a sick sense of dread. I don't need to hear his name to know that it's Greg. I can tell from the direction the noise is coming from. Did I somehow cause this? Did my carelessness result in the death of an innocent boy?

I recall the conversation I overheard between Greg and his mother not too long ago. Greg was planning to go to university abroad, to widen his horizons. Now he'll never get to do that. Now he'll never get to do anything.

I cannot let this happen again. I have to get out of here, so I grab my bag and start packing everything important. If I run now and never look back I can live out the rest of my life the way I planned; unattached and free. And if I live like that, no more lives will be lost beyond my own. I look both ways before leaving my room to make sure I won't be followed and sneak out down the hallway. I don't use the main exit—that would be obvious—instead using back corridors and low-traffic areas.

I should've known that he would inevitably follow me, but I'm so preoccupied in getting away that I don't notice the footsteps shadowing my own until I'm outside. I turn around and find John standing two meters away, staring at me with those stupidly endearing blue eyes.

"What are you doing out here?" I ask him.

"I could ask you the same thing," he counters coyly. "But I don't have to. You're running away." The statement is delivered without a hint of doubt, and I know I'm screwed.

"Yeah. So what?"

"I don't want you to go." The bluntness of that statement catches me off guard; I'm used to slipping away without anyone caring except for those who are paid to keep me in one place. The fact of the matter is I don't want to go either, but I have to.

"Even if I stay, I'll be put in isolation. I might as well be a thousand miles away with how much you'll see me," I explain. The thought of being so close yet so far from John is unbearable. Now that we've experienced being just a little bit closer, the notion of forcing a greater distance between us makes me sick.

"We can convince Molly to lift your suspension," John states.

"No, we can't. You know we can't. She's intransigent. No matter what we do or say, she won't change her mind."

"Fine. But you are not leaving me without one more date."

"John, that's no way to ask someone out," I joke.

"Nothing about our relationship has been normal up to this point, I don't see why we should start now. Can we walk to the park to go see the lights?"

His request seems reasonable, but I think about the cold winter air around us and the fact that neither of us has a lung function above forty percent. "We should take a cab," I suggest. "Neither of us should be walking that far."

"I want to walk." It's not a counter-suggestion, but a demand. If there's one thing I've learned about John Watson, it's that his mind cannot be changed once it is made up. I once thought that I was the most stubborn person I knew, and then he convinced me to complete my treatment regimen, something I'd been determined to have no part in. We are walking to the park whether I agree to or not.

"At least bring oxygen," I relent. John nods and disappears back into the hospital. He returns with portable oxygen for both of us, and we set off towards the park. We tell no one where we're going, and the freedom is intoxicating. For once in my life, I don't have Mycroft or overbearing nurses looking over my every move to ensure I don't endanger my own life.

"I'll bet you've broken more rules since you've met me than in all years prior combined," I say once we're about a third of the way there. The lights are becoming more distinct in the distance, and I understand why John has always found them so alluring. The beckon me like a homing beacon.

"You're absolutely right. You're a terrible influence. I should turn around and leave you right now," he says with mock seriousness.

"You dragged me along on this adventure. If we get caught, I will not hesitate to throw all the blame on you."

"They'll just think you're lying to save your own hide."

"Darn, you're right. Was this your plan all along? To act like a well-behaved goody two shoes to gain their trust, fall in love with a ruffian like me, then pull off the stunt of a lifetime and let me take the fall for it? I must admit, it's a clever plan. I would never have the patience to pull it off."

I expect to hear his snarky retort, but instead I feel a sharp, cold pain in the side of my head. "Hey!" I shout, shaking snow from my hair. "What was that for?"

"Being a twat," John answers, already preparing another snowball from a nearby drift. This time, I manage to protect my face with my arms, and John laughs as he packs another handful. I bend down and grab more snow to get him back, but he nails me before I even get a chance to throw mine. While he's busy building another snowball, I finally get in a shot. My aim is off, and I only hit his shoulder, but it's enough of a victory for me. All this excitement is—literally—taking my breath away.

After taking another hit, I scramble towards the portable oxygen and take a few minutes to breathe with the supplement. Fortunately, John is kind enough not to throw more snowballs at me while I'm refueling. That's a line neither of us would ever cross.

Once I'm good to go, we continue our walk until we reach the park. Now that the lights are in full view, we both stop to admire them. It's not a Christmas display, but it's beautiful nonetheless. An abstract statue of randomly coiled metal rods sits dotted with little white lights which make it glow angelically. I squint and try to decipher if it's supposed to be a certain shape, but there is absolutely no order to it. However, there is infinite beauty in the chaos of twisted limbs and random orientation. A typical couple would stand and hold hands to admire it, but John and I are not allowed such an intimate luxury. Instead, I find a branch on the ground that's about two meters long, and we hold to opposite ends of that. It's not ideal, but it's all we've got.

"They're everything I hoped they would be," John whispers. I can't imagine what it's like for him to finally see these lights in person after dreaming about them from a distance for years.

"Why did you never ask your parents to take you here?" I ask. If he wanted to see them so badly, it doesn't make sense why he hadn't. It's a pretty simple request, one that parents of a sick kid would grant without hesitation.

"I feared that seeing them in person would make them less magical. Maybe they were only special because they were unattainable and mysterious," he explains.

"So why did you want to see them tonight? Aren't they less special now?"

"No. Now they're special because I saw them with you."


	12. Chapter 12

One can only stare at lights on a misshapen statue for so long before they become a tad bit boring. I pull Sherlock along by the stick he'd grabbed towards the pond at the other side of the park. It's frozen solid, and the temperature is comfortably below freezing, so I take a cautious step out onto the ice.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asks, planting his feet firmly on solid ground. "It could be dangerous."

"Relax," I tell him. "It's so cold outside, I'll bet it's frozen almost all the way through." He hesitates, but eventually joins me on the ice. We slide across the surface, connected only by the branch between us. I want so badly to pull him closer, to feel his body heat next to mine, but I'm forbidden. I'm already risking everything being as close as I already am. Even if I try to initiate something, Sherlock won't allow it. He's obsessed with keeping me safe from him. But in that moment, I don't care if I contract B. cepacia. I don't care if I stop breathing here and now because I've never been happier.

Sherlock and I spin in lazy circles on the ice, our eyes fixed only on each other. He's wearing a beanie over his dark curls, and its navy blue color almost blends in with his hair. I scan over his eyes like I've done countless times since I first saw him, cataloguing the colored flecks within each iris. I feel as if he's doing the same to me, although my own eyes are boring and flat in comparison. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, but I ignore it in favor of savoring this moment for just a little longer. It's probably just my mom wanting to set up our next lunch together or something.

Eventually, Sherlock pulls me back off the ice and we sit down against a nearby tree. We both strap on the portable oxygen because we're panting from the exertion. My phone buzzes several more times, and I continue to ignore it. Whatever it is can wait. "Why didn't we do this sooner?" I ask dreamily. I want this moment to last forever, to never have to do anything again except savor this feeling in my chest. I am well-versed in aches and pains, but none compares to the agony of holding back from embracing him.

"I guess we were waiting for the right moment," Sherlock replies. This must be the right moment, because I cannot imagine euphoria greater than the one I feel right now. My elation is matched only by my frustration at the lack of intimacy. But why is this the right moment? In the wake of Greg's death, we are reminded that we don't have forever. Nobody has forever, but we have even less time than most. Which is why it's doubly important that we maximize every second.

My phone buzzes yet again, and I finally deign to check it just to see what's going on. I find three messages from my dad, and four from my mother. They're all worded slightly differently, but the gist is this: "lungs are on their way. Where are you?" I don't reply to a single one. I decide that I don't want new lungs. If I accept them, Sherlock's restraining order will be strengthened ten times, and I lose all hope of ever seeing him in person again. If I refuse them, I can spend the rest of my life with him and not give a damn if I catch his disease. So I slip my phone back into my pocket and refocus on the boy at the other end of our stick.

"What's up?" he asks, referring to my messages.

"Oh, nothing. Just my parents wanting to set up dinner plans for when I get out of here," I lie. If he sees through my dishonesty, he shows no signs of doing so.

"Ah." Silence reigns for a few moments before Sherlock broaches a subject I never thought he'd address. "So… these three little pigs you mentioned earlier."

"You want me to read you a bedtime story now?"

"Sure. Now's as good a time as any."

"I don't have it memorized."

"Just do your best."

"Okay." I never thought that I'd be asked to summarize the Three Little Pigs on a date, but then again I never thought I'd actually be on a date in the first place. Certainly not with such an enigmatic boy. "So, there were these three little pigs," I begin.

"Do they have names?"

"No. They're just sort of a collective. And there's also a Big Bad Wolf."

"Why is he so big and bad?"

"I don't know, he just is."

"He doesn't have some sort of tragic villain backstory?"

"No. It's a fairy tale, not a novella."

"I think he should have a backstory," Sherlock insists.

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but he doesn't have one."

"Then make one up."

"Pardon?"

"Give him a backstory," he repeats.

"Alright…" I think for a minute. I am not the creative type, so making up a story on the spot is not my idea of easy, romantic fun. However, I have the perfect story already at my disposal: the one I'm living. "The Big Bad Wolf has cystic fibrosis and is in love with another wolf who also has cystic fibrosis, and he's angry at the world because he can't be with her properly."

"Sounds plausible," Sherlock remarks, giving the branch between us a playful tug. "Continue."

"The three pigs each live in their own house that they built themselves. The first pig lives in a house made of straw. The Wolf comes to his house and asks to be let in. The pig replies, 'not by the hair of my chinny chin chin,'" I detail. I don't remember the story word for word, obviously, but I can recite the more famous lines.

"Why does he use such an expression?"

"I don't know. That's what the author wanted him to say. Anyway, the wolf huffs and puffs and blows his house down. It collapses, because it's merely made of straw, and the pig runs away to the second pig's house, which is made of twigs."

"How can the Wolf blow down an entire house if he has CF? I couldn't even do a breathalyzer test."

"He's not supposed to have a backstory. And this is why; it complicates things. Just stop asking questions and let me finish the story." He doesn't retort again, so I accept that as him submitting to listen. "He does the exact same thing at the second pig's house. He threatens to blow down the house if they don't let him in. They don't let him in, so he blows the house down, and it collapses because it's made of only twigs. The two pigs run away to the third pig's house, which is made of bricks. The Wolf tries the same thing again, but when he tries to blow down the house, he can't because it's too strong. So the Wolf runs away hungry and the three little pigs live." Sherlock frowns, and I smile at the way the skin around his eyes scrunches up.

"That's it? Doesn't the Wolf have any other tactics he can try besides blowing?"

"No," I tell him. My phone buzzes again, and I resolve to ignore it. "That's all he does." Another buzz. They're getting more frequent now, and I'm afraid Sherlock will notice.

"Why? Wolves are supposedly intelligent, wouldn't he think to try something else?"

"Sherlock, it's just a fairy tale. It's not supposed to make perfect sense. Believe me, as far as fairy tales and fables go, this is one of the more realistic ones."

"Why didn't all the pigs build their houses out of bricks in the first place?" he asks. It's a decent question, one that the original story probably answers, but I can't remember why.

"Bricks are more expensive and the first two pigs are cheapskates," I answer. This seems an acceptable explanation to Sherlock, who nods in understanding. I chuckle, thinking about how many twisted, nonsensical versions of fairy tales I could tell him. He has absolutely no prior knowledge of these things, so I could tell him that Cinderella was a fire sorceress who bewitched people's shoes to fall off and get lost and he'd totally believe it. I tuck that idea away for future use and ignore several more texts.

"Should you get that?" Sherlock questions.

"Nope. It's just a group chat," I explain. "They're talking about something amongst each other, it doesn't matter."

"Who?"

"Just some friends from school." Fortunately, he buys it. But if they start calling, I'm not sure what I'll do. If Sherlock finds out that the hospital has lungs for me, he'll force me to go. But right now, I don't even want to think about major surgery. I just want to sit with my boyfriend and talk about fairy tales, maybe for the rest of my life.

~0~

I find it odd that John doesn't want to answer his text messages. Whenever I text him, he responds within three minutes, and I assume the same goes for just about everybody. I might read a message and forget to reply for hours or even days, but John's not like that. And when he tells me that it's nothing, just a group chat holding a conversation without him, I see him clenching his left hand into a fist. He always does that when he lies.

For a second I consider the notion that he's cheating on me, but dismiss it as complete nonsense. We've known each other all of a few weeks, so if he's seeing someone else it's them he's cheating on; I would be the 'mistress.' Secondly, John would never do such a thing. My suspicions that he's not up to no good are confirmed when I receive a message of my own:

"We have lungs for John. Do you know where he is?"

What? John's being bombarded with notifications that they have lungs available for him, and he's ignoring them! Why would he do such a thing? He's been waiting for this moment his entire life; this is the event that promises a healthy future.

"John! Lungs!" I exclaim, still wondering why he's not bouncing with excitement. "We need to go now!" I stand up and start to walk away, but John remains rooted to the spot. "Why aren't you coming?"

"I don't want them," he states firmly.

"What? Why not?"

"New lungs will only give me five extra years at best," he explains. "It's not worth it."

"Of course it's worth it! Five years is like forever to kids like us. What I wouldn't give for five more years." My own hopes of a lung transplant were dashed against the rocks when I got B. cepacia, not that I particularly cared at the time. For most of my life, I've just gone along with what Mycroft demands. But John, John lives for himself. He truly wants to continue living, and I don't understand why he's not jumping at this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do just that.

"They'll be five miserable years," he claims.

"Why?"

"You won't be a part of them."

He's right. Of course he's damn right. The second he's taken to surgery, I'll be whisked away as far from John as possible. Molly would have my head before she'd let me go within twenty meters of John once he gets new lungs. But that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for John's health.

"That may be true, but five years is plenty of time to meet someone else, someone healthy who you can actually build a life with."

"I don't want someone else. I want you." I feel blush rising in my cheeks at the compliment. I'm not used to being so important to somebody. I was never this important to my own parents. A warm feeling bubbles up inside me and rises to fill me from top to toe. I want to just grab John by the collar, drag him far away, snog the hell out of him, and damn the consequences. But I can't do that. Even if he claims otherwise, John still has a life outside of me. He has his parents who love him, he has James and Mike, and an infinite number of possibilities ahead of him—if he accepts the new lungs.

"John, while I am honored, I cannot be the reason you lose this opportunity. We are going back to the hospital if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. I will not have another casualty on my watch."

"Sherlock, Greg's death was not your fault," John assures me.

"This isn't about Greg right now. This is about you. There is a pair of healthy lungs waiting for you at that hospital, and I will not be the reason that they don't end up tucked neatly inside that chest of yours."

I cross my arms firmly and wait for John to stand up. He doesn't look me in the eye, instead at a tuft of grass poking through the snow. He fiddles with the oxygen tubing for a few moments before taking a deep breath and rising to his feet. I want to know exactly what's going on inside his head, but I can only guess from his facial expressions and body language. He looks back towards the hospital and takes a step forward.

I notice that the cannula is tangled on a branch of the tree, but too late. John takes another step forward and his head is jerked backwards when the slack proves too short. Off balance, he stumbles and ends up back on the ice. The ice that was strong enough to hold both of us mere minutes ago crackles and groans beneath John. He freezes and fixes me with a panicked stare as the ice continues to protest bearing his weight. With a massive snap, the ice breaks, and John plunges into the water below.


	13. Chapter 13

Several times in my life, I've described feeling like I'm drowning. Of course there are the many occasions I've been so clogged up with mucus that I'm actually quite close to drowning, and also the roaring emotional agony of losing Harry, and then Greg. When someone says they feel like they're drowning, it usually means that circumstances are so overwhelming that they cannot catch their breath. Now that I'm actually drowning, I vow to never use that comparison again—if I survive.

No amount of mucus in my lungs can match the sensation that encompasses me right now. I've mentioned that CFers don't often swim, and this is exactly why; we can't hold our breath to save our lives. Right now my life literally depends on my ability to hold my breath, and I can't do it. The shock of the cold water forces me to immediately inhale upon submerging. I feel the water rush up my nose and down my throat, eliminating any reserves of oxygen I'd built up upon falling in the water. Fortunately, I'd been on oxygen for the few minutes preceding, so my reserves are slightly better than they would have been. Maybe there's a chance I'll pull through.

But how can I escape the pond? Sherlock can't pull me out without getting too close, and he wouldn't do that. I wrench my eyes open and the freezing water stings like a thousand tiny needles. My vision is blurry, but I can make out the surface above me. However, all I can see is an expanse of ice above my head; the hole I made by falling in is nowhere in sight. I swim upwards and try to break another hole to drag myself out of the water, but the ice is too thick and I'm too weak.

My vision starts to tunnel and my brain forces another breath into my lungs without my permission. It's a futile attempt to get some oxygen, but it backfires when my respiratory system fills with even more water. I always expected to die, just not like this. I'd thought that the CF would eventually catch me and drag me under. Well, I'm defying the odds, just not in the way I'd hoped. The last thing I hear before I pass out is Sherlock screaming my name.

"You're not getting off that easy," a voice says. I open my eyes and see Harry standing two meters away. I must be dead, if she's here. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't make it, but in all honesty it was hopeless.

"Harry?" I still don't believe that she's actually here. I'm probably dreaming.

"Yes, it's me. You need to get out of here."

"Why? And how?" I look around for a possible exit, but we're surrounded entirely by thick blackness. Harry shrugs and turns away. "Wait!" I call, not wanting to be left alone in this frightening place. She clearly doesn't hear me, or if she does, she doesn't react. I try to follow her, but my feet are rooted to the spot. I can do nothing but stand helplessly while she walks away from me. As she disappears in the distance, I know I will never see her again.

~0~

Time slows down as John falls into the water. For a moment, I am stupefied, unable to move or think. I might have screamed, but I cannot hear the sound leave my lips. However, my brain manages to turn itself back on, and I lunge towards the water. But wait—I can't get close enough to rescue him. Pulling him from this pond will certainly require being nearer than two meters.

"Screw it," I tell myself, diving into the water after him. If I do nothing, he will certainly die. If I break the rules and do something, at least there's a chance he might live. The water is cold enough to hurt, but I ignore the pain and the burning in my chest as I swim towards the limp figure sinking towards the bottom. I draw on what little knowledge of swimming I have to drive myself towards him as quickly as possible. If I don't get out of the water soon enough, I'll pass out too and then we'll both die at the bottom of this pond.

My fist finds a handful of jacket, and I hold on with as much strength as I possess. I kick and paddle with my remaining arm back towards the surface and the hole in the ice. John's been under longer, so I push him ahead of me and launch him out of the water. I hear the ice creak and I fear that it'll break more and plunge him back into the water, but it holds. I scramble for purchase against the perimeter of the hole, my fingers trying for a handhold on the slick ice. By some miracle, I manage to drag myself out of the water. I grab John by the hood and pull him to solid ground.

The severity of the cold is magnified ten times by my wet clothing, and I start to shiver. I kneel beside John and check for signs of life. I find a meager pulse, but feel no breath escaping his nose or mouth. He must've inhaled water and stopped breathing. Fortunately, I'd left my phone beside the tree when I dove in, so it's still functional. A quick emergency call later, and I'm faced with the most difficult decision of my life.

Rubbing John's sternum does nothing to revive him. If he doesn't start breathing soon, he'll suffer brain damage or die. My only hope of saving him is to breathe for him, but that might also kill him. I'm trapped in a hopeless dilemma, but this is a chance I have to take. I tilt John's head back and place my lips against his, forcing air into his broken lungs. Only after I've done that three times do I remember that my own lungs aren't so great either. Most of the time, I can barely breathe for myself, and now I'm attempting to breathe for two.

Needless to say, I don't last long. I start flagging around breath number five, but force myself to keep going. My peripheral vision begins to darken, and I know I'm close to losing consciousness. What a terrible irony it would be if my efforts fail to save John and I end up dying too because I drove myself to oxygen starvation. Just as that thought crosses my mind, my vision winks out like a spent light bulb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was pretty short, but I'll make up for it next time. Chapter 14 is one of the longest chapters of the entire story. And I guess this cliffhanger is just as bad as the one I left you with last time... sorry (not sorry) :)


	14. Chapter 14

Shockingly, I awaken back in the hospital. I'd thought for sure I was a lost cause, but somehow I escaped the frozen pond and made it back here. Dr. Mortimer and my parents are all here, staring down at me like I'm the most fascinating thing in the world. I see them breathe a collective sigh of relief when I open my eyes, and wonder just how long I was out of it.

"Oh, thank goodness," my mother splutters, embracing me in a bone-crushing hug. My chest is sore from filling with a foreign substance, and her squeeze does nothing to alleviate that pain, but I allow it. She must've been so worried.

"I don't want the lungs," is the first statement out of my mouth.

"John, why not?" my father asks earnestly.

I give them the same reason that I gave Sherlock at the park: "It's not worth it. They'll only give me five years at most."

"But you've waited your whole life for this," my mother adds.

"A certain someone taught me that quality of life is more important than quantity." Pretty much everything Sherlock's ever done has reflected that philosophy perfectly.

"But these new lungs will give you both," a familiar voice says. I glance at the entrance and see Sherlock himself standing there, portable oxygen in tow. His lips are a disturbing blue color, and he looks like he should be tucked up in bed, yet he's here. He probably fought his way through a slew of nurses just to get here to convince me to have this life-changing surgery. "I'm going to stand here until you agree to accept them," he announces. I can't say no. I don't recall exactly what happened, but he must've had something to do with it. By the looks of him, he nearly sacrificed his own life to save mine. I can't repay that by refusing his wish for me. As much as I hate what this will do to us, I know that I must agree.

"Okay," I mutter. "I'll have the lungs." I think I see my dad subtly pump his fist in victory, but my focus is on Sherlock's smile. He nods knowingly, and I'm sure I've made the right choice.

~0~

I have no recollection of what transpired at the pond after I passed out, but the hospital must've sent people to fetch us because the next thing I know I'm awake in my room surrounded by a flock of concerned-looking nurses and doctors. I'm still hopelessly woozy, but even so my thoughts immediately jump to John. I reach up to remove the oxygen mask from my face to ask about him, but Molly stops me. She's frowning at me, and I know I should be ashamed of what I've done, but I can't find the strength to feel remorse.

I can tell she wants to ask me about what happened, but she's worried I won't be able to answer. Once again, I reach for the mask, and this time she allows me to pull it off. Almost immediately, I miss the supplement. My lungs are practically screaming in protest, but I ignore them and force my voice to function. "John?" It's horrifically slurred and hoarse, but Molly catches my meaning.

"He's alive," she informs me. If I could, I would've sighed in relief. As it is, I can already feel consciousness slipping away in the absence of the extra oxygen. Molly pulls the mask back over my face and I relax slightly at its return. Another nurse passes Molly a piece of paper and pen, which she in turn hands to me. She's not going to let me do any more talking.

"What happened?" she inquires. I'm not sure I'll be able to stay awake long enough to write that all out, but I do my best to summarize it concisely. My hands are shaking from exhaustion, so my writing is nothing more than a messy scrawl, and I skip some words and conjugations to conserve my strength, but I think it's enough. I write one sentence fragment at a time, and Molly either nods her understanding or asks a yes/no question for clarification.

"Walk to park. Ice break."

"You went out onto a frozen pond?" she questions. I nod solemnly. I know it was a stupid decision, but we were so caught up in the magic of the moment.

"J fall in. I pull him out."

"You dove into the frozen pond to rescue him?" I nod again. Molly sighs in exasperation, and I manage a weak smile at my stupid heroism.

"J no breathe. I breathe for him." Molly reads that last statement several times, considering the possible implications. I know it was risky, but at the time I had no other choice.

"You gave him mouth-to-mouth?" she confirms. I nod meekly. I don't even feel them begin, but suddenly tears are streaming down my face. There's no way in hell John didn't contract B. cepacia from me forcing my own air into his lungs. CFers aren't supposed to get closer than two meters; not only did we break that rule a little bit, we threw it in the trash and burned it to ashes. I forced myself as close to another human being as I can get, and John's going to pay for my recklessness.

The tears continue to come, and my breathing weakens as I start to sob. Molly sits down beside me and wraps her arms around me. Hiccoughing, I bury my face in her shoulder. She rubs comforting circles on my back as I choke and cry. At this rate, I'll pass out again in the next few minutes. Spent lungs like mine aren't equipped to sustain sobbing, and I can feel my strength draining.

"Sherlock, you did nothing wrong," Molly assures me. "You saved John's life." I might have, but at the same time I also ruined it. What if they deny him the lungs because he almost certainly has B. cepacia now? I'll never forgive myself. I want to ask Molly about this, to confirm that John will still get the lungs, but I don't think I could muster enough breath for a single word. Eventually, my sobs ease and Molly releases me. I've never been one for physical contact, since neither my parents nor Mycroft were very prone to hugging. In fact, this might be the first real hug I've ever received, and I find that I don't want her to let go.

A hideous whimper escapes my throat and I start to shiver, grasping for the warm body that is no longer there. Then, I feel a heated blanket being tucked around me, which feels like nothing I've ever felt before. The thought didn't even occur to me that I'm probably hypothermic from being outside, soaking wet in the middle of winter. I grab the blanket and curl up even tighter, feeling sleep creeping up on me. "Get some rest," Molly encourages. She pats me on the shoulder before departing. I barely register her touch before I'm fast asleep again.

I awaken again feeling a little bit better, but still worse than I have in a long time. Martha is in the room with me, and I can tell she's on an assigned watch shift. What, do they think I'm a flight risk? "Where's John?" I ask her urgently.

"He's still sleeping," she says. "It was close, but he'll be okay." I know immediately that I have to go see him, to be there when he returns to consciousness. I have to apologize for giving him the worst disease a CFer could ever receive. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull the oxygen mask off. I notice the difference, but I don't immediately feel like passing out. I move to stand up, but Martha has marched over and puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To see John."

"Nope. Not right now," she insists. "You are staying right here until Dr. Mortimer is satisfied you're not going to crash."

"I'm not going to crash, I'm fine," I tell her, fighting against her hold. The desire to see John is so overwhelming I feel like I've been hollowed out inside. Making sure he's okay, seeing him with my own eyes; that's the only thing that will fill the gap.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are far from fine."

"Please, I have to see him," I beg. I look up at her and put on my best 'sick innocent little kid' expression. It's gotten me out of countless punishments in the past. I even go so far as to pout my lower lip a bit. If it were Molly here guarding me, she wouldn't give in for anything. Molly wouldn't hesitate to sedate me if that didn't bring risks of impaired breathing, so she'd probably resort to handcuffing me to the bed. However, this is Martha, and she's much easier to manipulate.

"Fine," Martha relents. I silently whoop with victory. "But you're bringing oxygen." She pulls the canister out of the corner of the room and threads the cannula behind my ears. I grin and thank her for letting me go before busting out of the door and down the hall. I see a small crowd inside John's room, so I don't even bother knocking.

I hear the tail end of an argument about accepting the new lungs. "A certain someone taught me that quality of life is more important than quantity," John says.

"But these new lungs will give you both," I tell him. He looks even worse than I feel, tinged blue and breathing heavily. He ponders, and I remind him that, "I'm going to stand here until you agree to accept them." He can see how weak I am, and I'm stubborn enough to do what I promised until I fall over from exhaustion. I know John won't let me do that. He accepts, and I smile excitedly.

I'm shooed out of the room so they can prep John for surgery, and I have no choice but to return to my own room. I know exactly how lungs transplants work, and it'll be hours and hours before there's any news on John. I sit down on the bed and glance at Martha, who's still sitting watch in my room.

"Why are you here?" I ask her. I don't mean to sound rude, but control over the tone of my voice is always wonky at best when I'm struggling for breath.

"Molly said you'd break out to go see John," she says. "She wanted someone here to stop you."

"Why'd you let me?"

"I could see how important he is to you. I thought seeing him would be worth the risk." I draw in another rattling breath and look down at my hands. My fingertips are still bluish from lack of oxygenation. Maybe the brief trip to John's room was more than I can handle, but it was definitely worth the risk. He's getting the new lungs, and he's going to live a longer, healthier, happier life. If he doesn't get B. cepacia.

Martha comes over and switches the nasal cannula for the full oxygen mask, and I collapse back against the pillows. I don't even register how long it takes me to fall asleep, but when I awaken again, it's not to Martha, but to John's friends James and Mike.

"How long has it been?" I ask them. I sit up slowly and pull the mask down in order to speak. Finally, I don't notice a drastic difference in my breathing without it. I glance at the nearest clock and see that it's been five hours since John agreed to have the surgery. "News?"

James and Mike shake their heads. "Why are you in here?" I ask them. They should be in the waiting room with John's parents.

"Molly told us that you could use company," Mike informs me. "She said she'd come and get us when John's out of surgery." Though I don't even know them all that well, I find that I do enjoy their company. It's certainly preferable to waking up alone with no way of getting information on John. We don't have much to talk about, but sit instead in companionable silence. Molly's arrival startles us all, and we look up at her eagerly awaiting news.

"John's finished; it all went great," she says. I release a breath I didn't even know I was holding. She ushers James and Mike out of the room, but motions for me to stay put. Usually when that happens, it means I'm in trouble.

"Sherlock, we tested John for B. cepacia," she begins. I bite my lip, knowing that the odds are not in his favor. "I have no idea how, but he seems to have avoided infection."

"What? How?" It's unbelievable. I literally pumped his lungs full of contaminated air.

"I don't know, but as of now he does not have it. We'll check him again over the next week or so just to make sure it stays that way. But you saved him." I don't know what to do with this information. It's more than I could ever hope for. Not only does John now have new lungs, he's healthy and uninfected. He'll get five more years, and probably more, since he's so anal about keeping up with his treatment regimen.

"I also have your latest test results." Molly's tone has turned solemn, but she can't tell me anything I don't already know. Besides, I'm so overjoyed to know that John is in the clear, she could tell me I have terminal cancer and I'd still be happy. "The Cevoflomalin isn't working."

"I know that already. I knew that from the start," I say.

"I know, but we were all holding out some hope." She looks sad, and in that moment I realize that she doesn't want me to die, that she truly cares about me. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, comforting her as she did me mere hours ago.

"I'll be okay," I tell her. I may not have much time left, but I'm going to be damn sure to make the most of every second. But only once I've tied up some loose ends here. After Molly leaves, I grab my laptop and create a special project for John. Once I finish that, I head over to the recovery room and ask where I can find him. A nurse directs me to John's room, and I enter quietly. His parents, James, and Mike are all there.

The mechanical hiss of a ventilator draws my attention to John himself. He lays absolutely still, his entire chest swathed in bandages. An endotracheal tube protrudes from his mouth, keeping his new lungs functioning while they adjust to their new body. He looks sicker than I've ever seen him, but I know this is the first step in a recovery that will make him healthier than ever before. His hand begins to twitch, and I know that I can't stay much longer. If I see him awake, I'll never be able to turn around and leave. But for John's sake, I must leave. My continued presence will only hold him back from the amazing life he could have.

"Goodbye John," I whisper.

~0~

I hear a voice whispering, and it draws me out of the deep sleep. "Goodbye John," it had said. I open my eyes, seeing only the stark white ceiling above me. I feel my regimented breathing and figure I must still be on a ventilator. Having a machine breathe for me while I'm awake is a tad disconcerting, and I feel briefly out of control. I want to sit up so I can see more than just the ceiling, but I can't do so alone. Someone understands what I want, and I feel the head of the bed raise slightly.

Around me, I see my parents, James, and Mike, all smiling. I keep scanning the room, looking for one more face, but he's nowhere in sight. "Where's Sherlock?" I want to ask, but talking is out of the question until I'm free of this tube. I remember how ill he looked when I last saw him, blue and shivering, and I fear that he died while I was in surgery. If that's the case, he died saving my life, and I will never forgive myself.

"Sherlock was just here, but he had to go," my mother informs me. I mentally sigh with relief, but wonder where exactly he has to be. I had hoped he would be here for me as I wake up. "He left you this." My mother grabs my laptop and sets it on the bed where I can see it. She pulls up a message from Sherlock and an attached video. I reach out and grab my father's hand as the video plays and Sherlock starts to talk. I watch him take a deep breath to steel himself, cough, and then shake his head to refocus.

"John Hamish Watson," he begins. I've always hated my middle name, but hearing him say it is like listening to an orchestral symphony. "I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment, but we both have some pretty important business to take care of." He idly scratches the back of his head. "You have new lungs now, and you have to focus on recovering, and… I'm afraid I will just be a distraction. Not only that, but I'm a danger. By some miracle, you've escaped B. cepacia so far, but we can't keep playing this game of Russian roulette. If we're together, it's only a matter of time before our resolves crumble, and when that happens, you'll certainly catch what I have. And I can't do that to you."

The first tears fall gently down my face as I realize what he's saying. This is a goodbye video; Sherlock isn't coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

"I wish our circumstances were different, I really do. If we had any hope of living a life together, believe me, I would've stolen you away ages ago. But unfortunately we have to deal with the cards we're given, and our hands are simply not compatible. I hope you don't resent me for leaving you like this, but I had no choice. Every moment that I stayed with you, it got harder and harder to walk away. If I'd stayed any longer, I wouldn't have been able to leave at all. I love you, John. I love you enough to deny myself the opportunity to be with you. Without me holding you back, you're free to explore the world with healthy lungs. Please don't hold on to the memory of me; go out and meet new people, fall in love with someone who can give you what you want. And now that you can breathe better, go blow some pigs' houses down." He manages a weak laugh, which only makes my tears fall harder.

The video ends, and I hate him for not making it longer. He's leaving me forever, with nothing more than a few minutes of footage. I want more. Not only that, I want him here for real. I want to be able to properly cry right now, to sob and shout and scream, but I can't. All I can do is sit in silence, tears pouring down my cheeks, and try to come to terms with the fact that this is the last chapter in the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that John just said this is the last chapter, but that's not entirely true. Of course, there will be a brief epilogue, just as there was in Five Feet Apart. Once that last chapter is published next week, I probably won't be able to post a new work for a while. Maybe I can crank out a Fragile ficlet, because I have about 3 half-finished ones, but I'll be spending most of my writing time wrapping up and editing my next full-length story: Sole Mates. I haven't yet written its summary, but I can say that if you enjoyed Fragile you might like this even more. Hopefully I'll be able to provide a summary by the time I post the Two Meters epilogue, but even if I don't I hope you'll still check it out when it's eventually published. Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

This is the first time Mycroft has let me travel alone, without either him or some guardian he hired to keep me in check. I'd thought I might be anxious, afraid something terrible would happen, but instead I just feel liberated. No brother staring over my shoulder telling me what I can and can't do. I sit in the airport next to Philip, waiting for the flight that will take us to Switzerland.

Mycroft had advised against going somewhere mountainous because of the thinner air, but I am no longer obligated to heed his advice. If I suffocate out there because my lungs aren't strong enough to handle it, then at least I'll die living it up in Switzerland and not in some hospital slowly fading away to nothing.

We have at least an hour and a half before we board, so I sit reading to pass the time. Not reading a book, but reading John Watson's blog. Even eight months after our parting, he occupies my thoughts nearly twenty four-seven. Often I wonder if I did the right thing, leaving him like that. I didn't even give him a chance to say goodbye back—he'd been on a ventilator. Sure, it was selfish, but I had a feeling that had he been able to say even one word, I wouldn't have been able to let go. But that's exactly what needed to happen, for both of our sakes. With these new lungs, he has a chance to be happy and healthy. I would only hold him back, with my ever-decreasing lung function and fixed lifespan. The portable oxygen I now have to carry everywhere speaks for itself.

Currently, I'm reading one particular post that I've reread more times than I care to keep track of. A few weeks after I left, he wrote up the story of how we met. It's endearing and wonderful and painful to read all at the same time. Through his eyes, I appear so different than how I see myself. Different in a good way.

I take a deep breath, listening to the whistle of oxygen through the cannula, and look up from my phone. Across the room, somebody catches my eye. He looks exactly like John, though I suspect the resemblance is purely coincidental. I must be seeing things because I'm thinking about him so pensively, because there's no way he's actually here in person. But then I see the two figures accompanying him, and I recognize them too: James and Mike, his two best friends. Now, the chances of three doppelgangers of people I know being in this very airport are slim to none, and my heart rate speeds up as I recognize what must be going on. It really is John. And I have no idea what to do or say.

Should I grab Philip by the hand and run before he can see me too? When I left the hospital, I'd intended our isolation to be permanent. I hadn't ever considered that we'd run into each other out in the world like this. It would be beyond awkward. But what if rapid movement caught his eye and he recognized my fleeting figure? Would he chase me down to get the closure that I had denied him? Undoubtedly, he'd catch me in less than a minute with his new undamaged lungs. Should I just sit here with my head down and hope he doesn't notice me? What if he sees and approaches? What would I say?

I'm still running through options when I realize that I've been staring at him the entire time. He turns and locks his gaze on Philip. I see the recognition flash in his eyes, and he pans over until he fixates on me.

~0~

Airports aren't typically associated with grand excitement and eagerness; they're long lines, waiting around, and irksome fellow flyers. However, at this particular moment, I've never been more eager to be in an airport. I take a deep breath, relishing in the newfound lack of difficulty, and hold it for a few moments. I didn't used to be able to do that. The surgery has given me so much more than new lungs; it's given me my freedom. Freedom to explore the world without worrying about contracting a respiratory infection or overexerting myself.

I am finally fulfilling my dream of seeing the Sistine Chapel. Of course, it won't be with Harry as I originally intended, but James and Mike are accompanying me after garnering permission from their parents. I don't know why this particular location has held my fascination for so long, but something about it is unimaginably alluring. Michelangelo allegedly ruined his back and shoulders by lying on a scaffolding and painting above his head for hours on end. I can appreciate risking one's own health to create something beautiful. Less than a year ago, I did that very same thing.

Until I met Sherlock, I'd followed every rule I'd ever seen fully and immediately. I got nervous when my parents drove barely over the speed limit. I was the one child in school to actually remain silent in the hallways and not whisper and giggle to my friends. I stayed two meters away from Greg throughout our friendship no matter how many times I was tempted to get closer to either comfort him or be comforted. But then that raven-haired boy showed up and all of my rule-following tendencies escaped me like mucus after an AffloVest treatment.

For the short time we were together, I felt more alive than I had in years. Simply laying eyes on him had made my heart stir and my breath hitch (in a good way). Despite the obvious risks to my own health, I broke the rules and stepped just that little bit closer to him. I remember that first date, clutching opposite ends of a pool cue I'd stolen from the billiards table in the game room. I could feel the electricity between us tingling in my fingertips. I should've known that something so wonderful wasn't meant to last.

I think about his goodbye message to me every night before I fall asleep. Lying down reminds me of the position I'd been in when that video played, just barely out of surgery and unable to do anything but watch and cry silently. I know it's for the best that we don't see each other anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't miss him. I miss him as much as I miss Greg, though it's a different kind of pain. I know that wherever Sherlock is, he's living life the way he wants to. As for Greg, I can only hope that he's in a better place.

Another thing about airports: they're full of strangers. Walking into one, a person is guaranteed to see dozens of people they've never before seen in their life. They are hubs of people coming and going, and therefore always bustling with a mix of people. I probably should be wearing a face mask to avoid contracting a cold, but I can't bring myself to practice that extra caution. Besides, my new lungs are better equipped to handle that duress. I take another deep breath, still a little shocked at how much I can actually take in at once. I wonder how long it will take for me to grow accustomed to breathing normally after so many years of reduced lung function.

I scan the sea of strangers waiting in a boarding area across the room, wondering exactly where they're all going. I halt when a flicker of familiarity strikes me. I see a face that I know I've seen before, but it takes me a minute to place it. Philip, one of Sherlock's friends that I'd spent time with during that fateful stay at hospital. I quickly glance at everyone in his immediate vicinity because I suspect he's not alone. Sure enough, seated to his right is Sherlock.

I'm pretty sure I stop breathing entirely. His goodbye had been so absolute, so final, that I'd abandoned all hope of ever contacting him again, much less seeing him in person. He looks just as I remember, if only a little sicker. B cepacia has not been kind to him, and I cannot fail to notice the nasal cannula on his face and portable oxygen by his feet. My brain wants to calculate how much longer he has before his broken lungs can't sustain his body, but I forbid it from doing so. He looks up and I lock on to those bright blue eyes.

Neither of us says a word, we just stare at each other as if we can somehow draw ourselves closer through sheer willpower. A thousand unasked questions pour through my brain faster than I can consider them. I want to know everything that has happened in the eight months since I last glimpsed that dark, curly head. However, I know that this encounter cannot be more than it already has been. I know that if I allow myself to be drawn into his orbit again, I will never escape, but spend the rest of my life circling his bright sun. I allow myself one small act of defiance, one little gesture to let him know that I haven't forgotten, nor will I ever forget.

I approach him slowly, stopping exactly two meters away. Our gazes remain locked the entire time. He knows what I am about to do before I can even do it, and the corner of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly. My disregard for rules is a trait attributed exclusively to him, and I know he's proud of that. I inhale, exhale, and take that one tiny step closer. I breathe in again and I swear I can smell him, though the difference in distance is negligible. That one step is a statement: I will not allow my life to be dictated by two meters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it. Thank you to everyone who's followed along with this story, and I hope you enjoyed this extra little piece. I thought it fitting to end on Sherlock traveling to Switzerland (where the Reichenbach Falls are), which also happens to be the destination John missed out on at the beginning of the story. If anyone's interested, go read the original book Five Feet Apart, it's probably way better than my twisted version.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who has read the book "Five Feet Apart" will recognize how closely I'm adhering to the plot. I haven't seen the movie yet, but I imagine it's also remarkably similar. Again, I am not trying to take credit for the storyline, only for adapting it onto new characters. Anyway, thank you!


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